


The Profound Bond

by cumberbellins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, Alternative Universe - FBI, Cas being oblivious and insufferable, Dean whining about everything, F/M, FBI Agent Castiel, FBI Agent Dean Winchester, FBI Agent Sam, Hate to Love, Humor, M/M, Past Character Death, Profound Bond, Sam and Dean aren't brothers, Sam having a lot of fun, Slow Build, That's it, and Bobby having to suffer through it all, they're all lil shits, well i hope at least
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:43:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbellins/pseuds/cumberbellins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Federal Agent Dean Winchester gets paired with an angel as part of the Bureau's new Human-Angel Cooperation Initiative, the partnership seems less than ideal. Castiel is arrogant, painfully inept in the ways of normal human interaction, and less than stellar at routine questioning. But as time passes, the human and angel begin to find themselves growing less at odds and more endeared to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Agents Winchester and Winchester

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Profound Bond](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/44401) by k9lover27. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is completely inspired by The Profound Bond, a fake trailer made by k9lover27 that you can find on Youtube. That video is "Loosely inspired by aesc's Below Skyscrapers" according to its author.  
> So yeah, I don't own the plot, but I couldn't live without this story, movie or not. So I'm writing it.

"What time do you have to go?" Sam asked again. It seemed like Dean's partner was anxious, which he obviously had no reason to be.

"Relax, _Winchester_."

People around them shot a glance in their direction. They had this habit of calling each-other by their family names, which were incidentally similar, and made them look like an incidentally gay married couple.

Sam spent the third of a second looking irritated – which he did, let's face it, with exceptional talent – and cursed the bureau again for thinking it was fun to pair up agents by name and have them introduce themselves as 'agents Winchester and Winchester' all over the country – because yeah, the FBI is _that_ serious.

"What if they want you to get a goldfish?" he asked after a particularly well executed eye-roll.

It was a new thing. With angels revealing their existence to the government, the secret services had suggested that hiring teleporting superhumans would give them a slight advantage over the rest of the world, and numerous agents were now assigned emotionally-constipated wingy douchebags, as Dean put it, or goldfish, as the rest of the world did.

"Sam, everyone knows we're the top team, they wouldn't risk splitting us."

Sam was not convinced.

"Besides, they know I'll kick their asses if they try sticking feathers to mine."

OK. Maybe he'd said that a bit too loud. For people who didn't know angels even existed (aka everyone in this bar), that sentence might have been a bit weird. All the Winchesters could do was pretend the world wasn't judging them for the depraved gay couple they were not, and finish their beer before leaving, about as awkwardly as it gets. Business as usual.

It was a short walk to the building where they were appointed, and they kept silent during most of it. Dean recounted to himself all the reasons why his bosses would never ask him to deal with a goldfish. He had made himself clear. His partnership with Sam was perfect for him. He liked working alone as much as possible, and the younger man didn't interfere with that, and was more than happy to take care of all the reading and research while Dean took most of the stupid risks that made their cases progress so fast. A new partner would change everything. Another human being would be painful, an angel would be a disaster.

  


By the time Dean got to the third floor, Colonel Singer was already waiting for him, so he went straight to his office, eyeing the new secretary there on his way.

"Agent Winchester," Singer greeted him.

"Bobby."

The two men shook hands, and sat down facing each-other across the big glass desk.

"How is our precious agent Winchester doing?" the elder man asked, smirking.

Dean was not giving him the satisfaction of asking which one. "Tall as ever," he answered instead. He thought for a moment, "I'll hear that joke until the end of my life, won't I?"

"This joke, my boy, is, like wine and myself, one of the rare things that will never grow old."

"Too late for that I'm afraid," Dean smiled. "So. Why did you want me here anyway?"

An awkward silence took control of the room as they eyed each-other, right until Singer sighed and decided to stare at his hands in his lap, before opening his mouth to speak.

"Look. I know you haven't exactly expressed enthusiasm when we established that new... policy. But..." Bobby offered him a powerless smile and a shrug.

Nope. Not happening. "But what?" Dean asked, voice harsher than he'd meant, and boy he'd meant it harsh.

"We've coupled them with our average agents and the results are very promising, but we need to test them on the real field, you know. Your kind of cases."

"So?" Dean exclaimed, "give them to Masters, she's been dying to get one of these feathery..."

" _What_ exactly is your problem with angels?" Dean sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, so Bobby kept going. "They're very accommodating, we've received..."

"Oh _come on_." He was yelling now, and got up on his feet to start pacing the room. "They have no respect whatsoever for official methods and they can't refrain from explaining you why you should let them decide with their _I'm-an-angel-of-the-Lord_ bullshit."

Now. Dean had never actually _met_ an angel, but what he'd heard was enough. According to his colleagues, working with an angel was both extenuating and unimaginably frustrating. Those bastards could escape to the other side of the planet with a thought, and had no idea who Clint Eastwood was, or what Youporn was for.

Bobby stayed calm, and laid his hands flat on the desk, his eyes on the furious agent he knew would break something if he followed him into his tantrum. "They're efficient. They follow orders..."

"Like _Hell_ they do. They keep questioning it all, with their arrogant crap." Dean stopped to face his superior, threatening him with his finger. "I am not teaming up with one of them."

Bobby waited for that look of doubt to show up on the young man's face, before he replied: "It's not up to you." Dean opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it when the colonel hit the table with his fist. "You will follow my orders. When your 'feathery-assed' partner – and by the way don't you dare ever call him that in his presence – when he shows up on Thursday, you will be right here to welcome him. You will take him on your cases with Sam, and when I say Sam has to stand down, Sam will stand down."

Dean swallowed and let that sink in when he saw the look of pure resignation on Bobby's face.

"Is that understood, Winchester?"

Dean nodded, looking at the ground.

"I didn't quite get that."

"Yes sir," he said, all rebellion in his voice blown away.

"Good. Now get out and send Winchester in." Bobby waited for Dean to close the door. "Idjit."

  


  


Thursday came too soon. Thursday always came too soon. Dean had had time to process what was happening and to start accommodating. He'd spent two nights with two of his fellow human Feds who had been sharing half of their life with a goldfish for a couple weeks now, and to be honest it was depressing more than anything else. Rufus had been assigned to that Balthazar guy, who, apparently, was the winged incarnation of a pain in the ass. The fucker gave no fucks about anything, which, apart from being a paradox, was incredibly irritating. Dean also learnt some new delightful information about the flying dickheads. Goldfish didn't sleep – not as in only four hours a night like Dean himself, but as in ever – nor eat, and could make themselves invisible so you'd never know if they were listening or watching you or God knows what these sons of bitches did in the dark.

So now that Thursday was here, Dean was as enthusiastic as the day his first girlfriend had taken him to a Shakespeare play, and, despite his determination to look as interested in the matter as a depressed sloth would be, a tiny bit curious. It was Sam who’d pointed out that it could be interesting to finally see what an angel looked like. Like, would the guy have actual wings floating around? Did he have special eyes like a demon? Would he look like a good little soldier or a terrifying warrior? Dean didn't know. And, as far as the universe was concerned, he didn't care.

"You ready?" Sam asked.

They were standing right outside the door, and the angel was right behind it. Dean gad been feeling angry, manipulated, betrayed, and even bored with the whole thing, but now that he was actually about to meet a creature of Heaven and not Hell, he was feeling nervous.

"Of course I'm ready," was what came out though. "Just open the freaking door."

Sam smiled with the corner of his mouth Dean couldn’t see, and opened the freaking door.

Inside, Colonel Singer was seated in his leather chair, facing a man in an expensive suit whose hair had gone missing.

"Ah," Bobby greeted them. "Agent Winchester, agent Winchester." The bastard couldn't help smirking. "Let me introduce you to Zachariah, head of the angelic supervision department."

Wait, what? So _that_ was an angel? Dean didn't know what his first instinct had been: an irrational and instant fear of the angel (goldfish?), or an irresistible urge to laugh at his name. He was thankful for the conflict between the two, which added up to no reaction at all. He extended his hand to shake the old... _man's?_ , and Zachariah looked at it like it carried the plague, before shaking it with extreme precaution.

_Douchebag._

"Gentlemen," he said with a smile that was a gestural translation of _get your hand off me._

"Sir," Sam answered.

Some seconds went by, during which Zachariah considered the room with disgust, Bobby looked at Dean, Dean looked at the angel and Sam looked at the floating awkwardness.

"Alright then. No need to waste any more time is there?" Zachariah rubbed his hands. "Here are the rules: no Enochian pranks, no asking for angelic personal favors, and they work for your..." he turned to Bobby with a questioning look.

"Federal Bureau of Information."

"Right. So not for you. No giving them orders. If you break any of these rules, it is not your _bureau_ you'll have to answer to, it's _me_." That smile of pure sympathy again. "That's all I've got to say, so... hope we won't have to meet again."

And then the bastard disappeared.

There was a short silence. Then...

"What the..."

"Trust me," Bobby assured, "there isn't a word you can come up with that I haven't already thought of."

"Does he think he's in charge or something?" Dean asked with incredulity.

"Well, technically, he is."

Dean opened his mouth, and closed it again. First, they were going to _glue_ feathers to his ass, and then they were going to use them as strings to turn him into a puppet. _Son of a bitch._

"So... where _is_ the guy?" Sam ended up asking. "Wasn't he supposed to be here before we showed up?" There was no venom in his voice. Sam was excited and curious, no matter how powerful the waves of worry and anger he got from the other Winchester in the room.

"Should be here any second now. Zachariah only wanted a few amiable words with you two before he handed you his soldier I suppose," Bobby said looking around the room as if the angel was going to materialize before his eyes. Which he probably would, now that Dean thought of it.

"Now that you mention it, what's up with the name?"

"Oh, that," Bobby shrugged. "Most angels have kept their true names. The ones from the Bible. Some chose to give it up but, I don't know, I think it's disapproved of up there," he said pointing at the ceiling.

"Uh huh," Dean nodded. "So what name am I going to have to pronounce every time I have to introduce the guy to witnesses? Or like, you know, people in general."

Colonel Singer opened the file that was resting on his desk. "I believe it is pronounced Castiel."

" _Castiel_ ," Dean listened to the name resonating in the room. It was weird, there was no arguing that; but it was strangely appealing. There was some kind of balance about it. Some words were beautiful and Castiel was one of th– _WHAT THE FUCK_.

A young man with dark hair, blue eyes and dressed like Columbo had appeared out of nowhere. He looked Dean in the eye and said, in a low-pitched and almost hoarse voice, "Dean Winchester."

  


A wide-eyed Dean Winchester was the first thing that Castiel would see. And apparently it was an interesting enough sight as the angel didn't seem to care for anything else in the room, until Sam cleared his throat.

"Hello," he tried, earning a glorious _absolutely nothing_ from the creature, who simply squinted and tilted its head, still focused on the green-eyed muted agent. He gave it another shot. "Castiel?" It was a first attempt at pronouncing the name, so it sounded more like an experiment than a call really, but at least the blue eyes left Dean's face to settle on Sam's. _Man, that blue wasn't human_.

As soon as the older Winchester was freed from the intense stare, he turned to Bobby, his eyes trying to convey _what the Hell was that_ the best they could.

Sam was quickly embarrassed by the strength with which Castiel was scrutinizing his face, and looked away after less than three seconds, inducing the man to switch his gaze to Singer, before returning to Dean. "You called."

If it had been possible for the agent to widen his eyes more than he already had, he would have. "I what?"

It was Castiel's turn to look surprised. "You called me."

"Hum, yes, about that, Castiel?" Bobby stammered, "we were waiting for you to begin with the explanations. I am unaware of the extent to which your superiors have informed you of human behaviors and the FBI methods, but my agents have been poorly taught about yours, which is the main reason behind this meeting."

The angel looked at the Colonel and then down at himself, his hands dangling at his sides. "I see."

"Let's start with teaching you some of the basic human needs? I mean... if Zachariah or... someone has already taken care of your education in the matter I'd be more than happy to move on directly to these boys'."

"I know the human functions. Strict minimum of thirty hours of sleep and ten thousand and five hundred calories a week, and for course human n..."

"Ten thousand and a half?" Dean interrupted. Castiel turned to him, seeming half surprised half offended. "That's like... not much, a day," the agent explained.

"One thousand and five hundred," Sam provided.

His partner threw a murderous stare at him, which the tallest Winchester replied to with a smirk.

"Yeah, okay, fine. Just. Go on."

"My Father designed your bodies, we are in possession of highly reliable data on how they run," said the flat voice, the blue eyes attached to it wrinkled at Dean.

"Oh _do_ you," the man spat at him.

Castiel frowned and opened his mouth, ready to answer, when some realization struck him and his face went neutral again. A chuckle emerged from Sam.

"Ooookay," Bobby pronounced carefully. "You know your stuff. Got it. Dean, Sam, your turn."

"Well. You guys don't eat don't drink don't sleep and don't have a sense of humor. What more is there to know?" Dean asked.

He bit back his _can-you-feel-the-sarcasm-tonight_ smile when he saw the furious gaze his Colonel was aiming at him. The angel looked taken aback. "Our humorous stories rely upon the Enochian language which is above your understanding."

There was just no silencing a goldfish, was there.

After a short staring contest between the two, Sam took the possibly unique opportunity he would get to ask a question. "Enochian? That – guy, Zachariah? He mentioned it too. What is it?"

"Most ancient language as far as we know," Bobby supplied. "Unequalled alphabet in terms of complexity, uses symbols, some of which have... supernatural properties. It was agreed during the first interspecies sessions that you don't need to know about those."

_A-ma-zing._

"Don't you have wings?" asked Sam before Dean got another chance to speak.

"Of course I do. They are invisible to most human beings though." The angel smiled at Sam, which pissed off Dean even further. There were very few things that were more irritating than a dickhead being forced into your life. A dickhead forced into your life that got along with your best friend was part of these things.

"Right. I'll just give you the absolutely necessary information and then you three are going to leave my office and go get to know each-other." All the agents in the room turned to the old man as he handed a phone to the angel. "Use this to communicate with these two, Dean will explain how it works," he said, looking pointedly at the green-eyed man. "As you may have gathered, although I highly doubt it, you guys simply need to pray his name for him to hear you, wherever he is, and find you. However I suggest you memorize his number. Any problem or concern, and by that I mean serious concerns, which do not include complaints about each-other, you come to me. Got that?"

"Affirmative," Castiel confirmed. Sam nodded. Dean remained quiet, wondering if he'd go to Hell for pulling that stick out of the goldfish's ass, and possibly thrusting it down his throat.


	2. The Seven Widows

It was customary for agents Winchester and Winchester to be found at the Roadhouse on their free nights. The bar was near HQ and Dean always got free drinks from that blond waitress who obviously had a crush on him. She was pretty enough, and he probably would have done something about it, if it wasn't for her mother constantly watching them. Shame. But Dean wasn't that depressed about it. The bar was in a popular part of town and therefore was often filled with young ladies _begging_ for him to even just look at them. _Perk of being so attractive_ , he'd once told Sam, _you wouldn't understand_.

They would drink beers, and occasionally shots, to celebrate their most difficult cases; play the billiards – or at least Sam would while Dean was messing with the jukebox – and remember all the fun they'd had working. The Roadhouse was their home.

But tonight, there would be no partying. Dean was feeling despondent. He wasn't even angry anymore. OK, maybe a little, but he was mainly just depressed. They had spent almost half an hour with Castiel after they had left the bureau. They had taken him to their current room, much against Dean's will, and Sam had asked a ridiculous amount of questions about life in Heaven and why angels had decided to collaborate with humans and even the goddamn hierarchy up there. Dean, surprisingly enough, had remained silent for the greater part of the day, refusing to have any contact at all with the angel. He was a good hater; once he'd decided he disliked someone or something, he stood up to it: matter of integrity. Eventually, Sam had blessedly run out of questions, and Castiel had left like he'd arrived: in a heartbeat, leaving the sound of flapping wings behind him. Dean had simply stated he needed a drink, and they'd ended up at the Roadhouse.

They were sitting on stools at the bar, regularly sipping from their beers.

"So, I don't understand," said Sam. "Are we like a trio from now on? Or is it gonna be just you and him?"

Dean threw his head back to throw the last drops of his beer down his throat. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I think it's supposed to be just the two of us against the rest of the world, but maybe Bobby will make an exception. Apparently we're the only supernatural agents with a goldfish so we're good candidates for exceptions," he said turning to look at Sam. "He did say he'd order you to stand down or whatever though. Eventually."

The taller man nodded. Dean made eye contact with Jo and gestured towards his empty bottle.

"Should I take offense?" Sam wondered. Dean took his new bottle from Jo and looked back at him. "I mean, they chose you. He's _your_ angel. I'm not jealous or anything, it's just weird that they chose you when –"

"When what?"

"When you've made it so clear that you didn't want anything to do with them." He shrugged. "I don't know man, it's strange that they'd assign him to you and not me."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "What. You think you'd be more _qualified_?"

"No, no, that's not what I'm saying. It's just, you're pissed off about it, whereas _I_ , I'm curious. I'd give the guy a chance. Bobby must have known that and yet, here we are," he gestured towards his partner, who gave him a _fair enough_ shrug. "Don't you think it's a bit weird?"

"I don't know man. Maybe they want someone who will be capable of actually _controlling_ the guy." He saw Sam's bitchface starting to form. "I mean, you're way too naive. You'd trust a demon in a heartbeat if he gave you one half-assed reason. No offense."

"None taken," Sam replied. He knew better than to feel insulted when Dean was angry or pissed. Especially when he was both. The man would try anything to upset the people around him, to be able to complain about everyone leaving him when they finally got tired of it. He knew and loved the guy like a brother, and had learned one thing or two about him along the years. "And who knows, maybe he's your personal guardian angel."

"Right." Dean had seen enough suffering to know these were either not a thing, or a very miscalculated one.

"Anyway... when are we going on our first case with the little winged man?"

A grunt. "No idea. Bobby will call. He wants to–” and Dean raised his fingers to mimic quotation marks, "— _give us time to find our new places around each other._ "

Sam chuckled. "Maybe it'd help if you actually spent that time _with_ the guy instead of complaining about him."

"No. I work better on my own. If he wants to tag along with his feathers, fine, but he's not interfering." Dean had come to that decision at some point during the day. He'd just show the bureau what a shitty team they made until Singer decided he'd had enough.

"Dean..."

"Don't _Dean_ me."

"I'm just saying, you should wait a bit before you set your opinion of him in stone. You didn't even know his name and already you'd decided to hate him. That's not fair, he hasn't done anything.”

"That's why I got the goldfish you see, you're so eager to believe in goodness. He's a creature Sam. Just like everything we hunt. There's no goodness in that."

"Dude, he's an _angel_. Last time I checked they were the good guys."

The Winchesters locked eyes with each other.

"They are supernatural beings, Sammy." The other man rolled his eyes. There was no need for that stupid nickname. "No, listen to me. They're supernatural beings. They're powerful, more powerful than anything we're ever hunted, right?" The other agent nodded. "You know what happens when people realize they’re more powerful than others? _Shit_ happens. So now we're going to take him on our cases and we're going to let him participate and whatever the bureau wants. Hell I'll even brush his wings. But the day they all turn on us, we will have the dignity of not looking surprised."

"Wow, I'm getting bad vibes from you bad boy."

Sam and Dean turned around, to come face to face with a dark-haired woman.

"Meg."

"So what 'you whining about tonight," she inquired with a wolfish smile, sitting on a tool next to the green-eyed Winchester.

"Dean just got his first goldfish," Sam provided. "He's chuffed about it. Aren't you bad boy?"

Dean would have punched that smirk off his face if he hadn't already broken three of his knuckles the last time they’d gotten into a fight. Their motel room had had bunk beds, and it had caused certain problems.

"They gave _you_ a goldfish." Meg's brain apparently required a few seconds to wrap around the idea. "Seriously?"

He winced at her. "Ain't I a lucky guy."

"I've been asking for one from the very day they told us about them. You've done nothing but complain," she revolted.

"Told them that. Clearly they found out you’re a woman."

She punched him in the shoulder. _Damn_. She was short but she could hit.

"What's he like?" She asked dryly after a few seconds. She was trying to look angry, but both the men could see the excitement in her eyes.

"Well I've thought about the right words to answer that question all day, and the best I've come up with is agent K."

"Agent K?" Sam spoke before Meg had opened her mouth, and in the end she used it to order her own beer.

Dean looked stunned. "Yeah. Agent K." When Sam shook his head with a frown and a confused look, Dean added: "Men in Black? Tommy Lee Jones?" He tried to mime it with his hands to make it clearer until he realized that mimicking a performance with fingers was a bit ambitious.

That bitchface again. "Yeah sorry I guess I must've been doing something productive when that came out."

Dean threw up his hands and mumbled _what am I gonna do with that kid_. "Actually you know what? He's like a goldfish. With his big eyes staring at everything like it's for the first time and his apparently frozen sense of humor. I totally get the name now."

"Yeah, I don't know about you Sam, but of all the jokes I've been told by fish, the goldfish ones are the lamest," Meg teased, "worst sense of humor in the universe."

"Amen sister," Sammy confirmed, and they clinked glasses.

"Oh don't try to be smart, it doesn't suit either of you dumbos."

They laughed, and Dean maintained his face of studied pouting. "I'm going back to the hotel. You two can stay here and marvel at the incontinence of these asshats by yourselves."

He got up and aimed towards the door, and heard Meg repeating _"Asshats?"_ before it closed behind him.

He had trouble sleeping that night. Granted, he had trouble sleeping every night, but that night was different. He wasn't mortified by how many mistakes he'd made in his life. He wasn't worrying for Sammy, nor was he pissed off at Bobby. Dean had this weird feeling he wouldn't call nostalgia because that word belonged in Jane Austen novels; this feeling that maybe the next day would be the end of an era, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  


"Dean."

 _Ugh. Sammy you moth_. _Let me sleep._

"Dean wake up."

_Not waking up._

"Dude."

_Go 'way._

"Dean I'm serious if you're pretending to be asleep just because it's your first day with an angel I'm calling you Brother Sissy until the end of your life. And then I'll carve it on your tombstone."

_Not waking up not waking up not._

"Dean, I'm going to get us some coffee, and when I come back, you'll be awake and shaving, or I'm stapling that picture of you with a skirt at Meg's birthday party in the locker-room."

_Oh shit._

Sam grabbed his phone before leaving. "Such a fucking child."

  


Dean got up pretty quickly after Sam had left, and by the time he came back, he was wearing his most comfortable trousers and a blueish shirt that most likely used to be green. Or something.

He didn't shave though. The kid wasn't going to boss him around.

When Sam pushed the door open, he found Dean drinking some clearly boiling coffee, and was greeted by a very precise look of _oh my god totally didn’t expect to see you even though you live here_.

"Did you seriously just... unbelievable."

Dean put on his best _watcha talking about_ face. "What?"

Sam sighed and just dropped it. "Here," he gave him his coffee. "That one's had time to cool down a bit on the way."

"Oh. Thanks."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Anyway. Ready to spend a whole day with the evil cherub?"

"Stop it. As long as we don't talk about it, he doesn't exist."

"I'm going to have _so_ much fun the day you realize he's here to help, and God forbid, good at it."

"Yeah right." Dean drank all his coffee before speaking again. "Hey, remember that case we ended up fighting Bloody Mary?"

"Sure. That was like, our third case together. Why?"

"How many mirrors do you think we smashed in that warehouse?"

"Hum, no idea. Like, I don't know, thirty? Why?"

"I'm just counting how many decades of misfortune I'm still gonna have to pull through."

Sam laughed. “Our grand-children's children are cursed."

A short moment went by as the two agents remembered their time together. The first time they'd met, it was the bureau introducing them to each other. They were in Bobby's office, where they might have seen each other a few times without ever really noticing. Sam will always remember the face Dean made when he had introduced himself as Agent Winchester. At first he'd thought the man had heard some rumors about him, until Dean had shaken his hand and told him. "What a coincidence. Me too." "You too..." "Dean Winchester." "Oh. _Oh_. Well. Pleased to meet you. Can't wait to see what else we've got in common." Bobby had laughed for days about this story. Dean would never forget the following night. He'd never thought someone would actually look him in the eye and say, with a tone that almost suggested nothing was wrong: "What's Nirvana?". For some reason, he didn't call the guy a douche. He took him to the Roadhouse and played Nirvana on the jukebox until they were about to pass out. There was just something about Sam. He was irritating and punctual, always asked him to turn the volume down in the Impala, and made him look a little short every now and then, but Dean had always made efforts to put up with him. Which is a lot more than he'd usually do.

"Hey, Dean. Look, I know we're going to be working separately, eventually, and I just want to say..."

_Oh no no no please don't make this day more awkward than it has to be._

"... I've always enjoyed working with you, and whoever my next partner is, I promise he'll never replace you." He paused, knowing they'd both be embarrassed for an hour or two, but it was worth it. "So you know, if that angel _is_ in fact an asshat," he smiled, "you can always call me; and I'll tell you about all the classic rock bands I've never heard about."

Silence. Dean didn't look at Sam, but they scratched their heads at the same time, trying to shake the embarrassment off.

"OK. I'm gonna need to go and throw up all that candy."

"Yeah, right. OK. Sorry."

"Yeah let's just go," Dean suggested as he put his brown leather jacket on.

"Sure."

  


The building was filled with curious agents when Sam and Dean arrived. Everyone knew what the elder Winchester thought about goldfish, and they weren't exactly used to Dean being forced into anything, so this was a strange morning for the FBI. Dean just glared at all of them, challenging them to comment on what was happening. Of course, no one did except for Meg, who caressed his shoulder as he walked by her, and said with a suave voice "Go show this asshat who's in charge, bad boy."

After she was gone, he turned to Sam. "Remind me, why haven't I slept with that girl?"

"You tried to ask once and she slapped you so hard you had a mark for three days."

_Right._

  


Castiel was already waiting in Bobby's office when they got to the third floor this time. The Colonel had set up three chairs across his desk, and the angel was sitting at the left end. The two agents shared an uncomfortable silence staring at one another, and a satisfied smile appeared on Dean's lips. Sam walked in first and sat in the middle, standing as a wall between Dean and the winged trench coat.

_Bless that kid._

"Agents."

"Colonel," they answered simultaneously.

"I'm not going to ask how the getting to know each-other went, partly because I already know, mainly because I don't care."

"Cheers," Dean couldn’t help approving. Both his partner (the _human_ one) and his boss glared at him. _What?_

"Let's just get done with it and get you all out of my office."

Dean tried to peek at Castiel to see if he'd memorized his stupid face correctly, and incidentally to know how he was behaving, but Sam was in the way. And Sam Winchester could be a real Iron Curtain when he wanted to be.

"Let's."

"We've got a series of deaths in Rock Island, Illinois. Married men with no children. Seven of them. They're being investigated separately by the state police, but there seem to be numerous connections between them."

"Like what," Sam asked.

"Well first of all they were all stabbed in the back with silverware. Then, there are the wives. They all look the same. Caucasian, 5"8, fit, long brown hair and brown eyes."

"And the cops are investigating them separately?" Dean marveled at the idiocy of the police services. "What's wrong with this universe?"

"I'd like to see you explain to people who don't know anything about supernatural beings that look-alike wives are enough to treat several cases that have no other connection as a whole," Sam stated. "Seriously, do it and I'll pay for your drinks at the Roadhouse for a whole week."

Dean raised interested eyebrows at him.

"Boys." The agents turned back to their Colonel. "Can you focus for five minutes here so I can go back to doing things I'm actually paid for?" They nodded. "Good. So you're all going. As you are in rather exceptional working conditions," he continued looking at Sam, "I expect a report of the situation between these two everyday. Think I can count on you or should I send an inspector?"

"I've got it Bobby," Sam assured.

"Good. Now go."

Now that Dean thought about it, he knew he should have been expecting it. At the precise second Bobby had said those words, Castiel had simply disappeared. Of course he had.

"Hum," Sam looked around the room, "where is he?"

Bobby shrugged. "Rock Island?"

"Right. Hum, how, how do we get him back?"

"Prayer. They're supposed to be able to hear anyone wherever they are."

 _Right._ No one was exactly certain what to do, so they all sort of looked at the other two, waiting for something to just happen.

"Dean." Bobby said, as if it was a whole sentence.

"Bobby."

" _You_ call him. He's _your_ partner."

"Do I look like I've ever set foot in a church? I don't pray.”

"He showed up when you pronounced his name the first time," Sam remarked. "You called, he came."

Dean rolled his eyes. "He didn't come because I called – which by the way I didn't – he came because he was sent by the bald guy."

"Come on what are the odds? That he'd come _exactly_ when you say his name?" Sam squinted his eyes. "He totally answered _you_."

"Sam, he didn't. It was a coincidence; I wasn't calling him."

"Okay then, call him now and we'll see."

"I'm not gonna call him! How am I supposed to call him?"

"I don't know, what did you do the first time?"

"Dude _I don't know_." Dean shrugged, "I just tried to pronounce his stupid name."

"OK then do it again," Sam ordered.

Dean widened his eyes at his partner. His face warmed up to mouth several ideas before it uttered: "No."

"Dean," Bobby intervened, "stop being such an idjit and call him back here already."

Dean stared at his boss for five seconds, before sighing. "Castiel?" Nothing. "See, he's not _answering my calls._ "

"Castiel? You there?" Sam tried. Nothing. "Maybe you should try again but make it sound like a prayer this time."

"Yeah I might try that, let's say on the twelfth of never."

"Dean come on," Sam pleaded. He looked at Dean with his freaking puppy eyes, the ones that made everyone crack.

Dean sighed again before closing his eyes. "Castiel, we pray your feathery ass to get right back in this office. _Por favor._ " He paused and smiled with pride. "Maybe the Latin will get to him."

"You are an insult to literally every Spanish speaker on this planet."

"The popular belief that Latin is the language of my Father is incorrect," spoke a grave voice behind the Winchesters' back as they turned around. "Latin is no different from any other human language, the language of Heaven is Enochian."

The three men sort of jumped, trying to minimize their reactions.

"And there was never any feather on my rear."

Everyone raised their eyebrows, Sam and Dean winced. "Anyway, where were you?" Sam asked.

"Rock Island, Illinois."

"Well don't mind us," Dean replied.

"I was waiting for you." Castiel sounded offended.

"Illinois is six hours away from here, what were you going to do?" Sam was actually curious. Were angels capable to work on their own? What did they do when there was nothing to be done?

"I said. Wait for you."

"Doing what?"

Castiel was startled. He squinted at Sam. "Waiting."

Dean smiled sarcastically, his eyes locked with Castiel's. "You'd have just stood there quietly?" The angel nodded. "Fair enough."

The blue-eyed Colombo was about to speak again when Sam interrupted: "Well you might as well ride with us,” at which point Dean gave him a _Sam what the fuck_ look. "There'll be loud classic rock and we'll have to stop every two hours because the driver will need to check on his precious baby and buy unhealthy sandwiches, but it'll be better than a whole day on your own."

"Your methods of transport are way too slow, we will fly there."

He approached the two agents, extending two fingers at each of them. He was about to put his hand on Dean's forehead when the man backed away. "Wow. What do you think you're doing?"

"Transportation of human beings requires physical contact."

"Yeah I'm sure it does. I'll pass though."

Castiel looked taken aback. "Time is not to be wasted. Driving will be agonizingly slow."

Not that he'd admit it, but Dean took offense at that. His baby was as young and rapid and beautiful as ever, and had experience on top of that.

"We're taking the car," Sam smiled sympathetically at the other young man. "We'll need to be able to move around by ourselves in case anything happens. If you want to go by yourself and wait for us we're okay with it but there will be no _transporting_ us."

Castiel nodded looking at the floor. "This seems to be a satisfying enough compromise."

Sam revealed a proud smile, and Dean saw the _I'm such a genius_ behind it.

"So, will you be riding with us or..."

But the angel was already gone.

"Guess he's not such a big fan of AC/DC," Dean grinned as he got up from his chair.

  


In the end, the drive from their hotel in Lawrence to Rock Island took seven hours and a half, mainly because Dean stopped twelve times to, according to him, 'check on the tires because dammit Sammy this is essential for the well-being of the car.'

When they arrived to their hotel, Castiel was inside their bedroom, sat on one of the beds.

"You're here," he welcomed them.

"We are," Dean answered just as warmly.

Everyone was silent while Sam and Dean unpacked. Well, Sam unpacked, placing his folded shirts in a closet and his loaded gun under his pillow, while Dean put his suitcase on his bed and walked around the room looking for abandoned money or alcohol.

Castiel seemed interested in Dean's quest, and Sam could see his eyes following the agent's every move.

After he'd plugged his laptop to feed him in energy (he could laugh at Dean and his love for the impala as much as he wanted but he'd fight for that computer just as hard as Dean would for his car), only then did he break that silence. "OK then, shall we?"

They changed into formal wear, black suits, ties and shoes and white shirts, and then turned to Castiel, who was still sitting on Sam's bed, looking like he was debating the meaning of the universe.

The guy was wearing a cheap suit with a button down shirt and a loose blue tie, all of this under a dirty trench coat. _Hum._ Sam and Dean exchanged a look. They had a whole conversation using only their eyes.

_We can't take him around wearing that._

_I know._

_You should probably say something._

You _say something._

_Dean don't be such a baby he's your partner just tell the guy._

_You're the baby chuckles now you're way more talented at conversation with idiots you do it._

_I'm so telling Bobby._

_I'm sure he'll be so interested. Bitch._

_Jerk._

"Hum, _Castiel_?"

"Yes Sam."

Dean mumbled, "First name basis huh?"

Sam glared. "Have your – your _superiors?_ given you a suit or any particular clothing at all to... to talk to the witnesses and stuff?"

"Why would I need special clothes to speak to people?"

"Right," Sam started. "You know what, forget about it, just let me..." He approached the angel palms in the air in sign of peace and closed the top buttons of his shirt and arranged his tie and vest a bit. Castiel looked down at the hands dancing around his neck without questioning. Sam hesitated to tell him to take off his coat, but the witnesses probably wouldn't care anyway. "OK, you're ready to go."

"Yes I am. Meet me at the first victim's house right a –"

"What? No no, no. No zapping in front of civilians," Sam interjected.

"Why not? What is a civilian?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Anyone but Dean and myself. You go anywhere where there'll be other people than us, you go by car or on foot."

"Why? That will be a huge waste of time." Castiel seemed genuinely confused.

"They don't... You can't –" He stopped. "Dean, some help here?"

Castiel's attention's shifting to Dean was almost palpable. The weight of those blue eyes actually took him by surprise.

"Uh. Just, don't," he muttered.

 _Thanks for that_ , Sam's eyes screamed at him.

"Alright," the angel said.

Both the boys were stunned, Dean was chuffed too.

"Cool," he said, his eyes on Sam. "Perfect!"

"So are we going to take the car?" Sam nodded. "May I at least _'zap'_ us to the car?"

Sam made eye contact with Dean, giving him these puppy eyes again. Dean shook his head quickly. Sam insisted and crooked his head. _Dammit_.

Being zapped was what Dean would call _uncomfortable_. To put it mildly. Angels didn't teleport, they fucking _flew_. Sam and Dean were ripped off the ground and dragged through the cold air to their car. It must have been fifty meters at most, and it had taken less than a nanosecond. Now Dean was pretty sure his liver and his stomach had swapped places, and his eyes were in his skull. _God_ that hurt.

" _Jesus fuck!_ What the _Hell_ was that?!" he yelled. "Man I'm gonna throw up or die. Both." He was leaning on his baby, and tried to push himself away from it in fear of hurting her.

"Aaah. My head. Jesus my head," Sam was almost crying.

"I don't understand, are your bodies that weak?"

If eyes could kill, the murderous look Dean all but threw at him would have burned the angel to ashes. He didn't even have enough strength to punch the bastard and wasn't that infuriating.

He felt like his body was going to implode, when he saw Castiel's hand reaching out for his forehead again. He tried to push it away, to run from it, but it was all in vain. He imagined all the places the angel could take him: torture room, prison cell, North Korea. Right now, even if it was just twenty meters further, he was sure he'd probably die of massive internal bleeding. When the fingertips brushed his skin, he was ready to take in the next wave of pain. However, it never came. He opened his eyes, and he was still in the same parking lot, next to his baby, and it felt like his stomach was in place again. He looked at Sam, who was apparently just as surprised as he was that they were still alive.

"What –"

"I healed you," Castiel's voice answered. "I was not aware that human bodies were so easily breakable. Now that I know that, I will be able to transport you without damage. My apologies."

"If you try to get your fingers anywhere near me ever again, I will break every single one of them," Dean threatened.

"If it makes you feel better I will let you break my knuckles right now, they are very replaceable. However I believe it would be more appropriate to use that time to investigate the case we have been assigned."

That guy was getting Dean's fist in his face. Not right now, because Dean was wearing a suit and Sammy was watching and _yes_ , maybe the goldfish had a point, they were here to work; but someday.

They all got into the car, Dean watching Castiel's every move around his baby. He saw the dirty trench coat rub against the leather seats and that just made him sick to his stomach. The blue eyes were taking everything in and he just wanted them shut, he felt like they were raping his baby or something. Voyeurism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've only seen the first six seasons right now so I don't really know how the boys' relationship with the new Meg is going to evolve, but I like her a lot and I wanted to give her a nice role.  
> I hope she's staying. I mean I know Supernatural characters don't stay, except for the Ghostfacers for whatever reason (like seriously why did you take Gabriel and not them), but I hope she'll be around long enough.  
> If you spoil it all for me in the comments I will murder you in your sleep and dance the macarena on your grave.


	3. We're a Team

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Supernatural doesn't give enough importance to the witnesses. I've just watched an episode of Six Feet Under so I don't know maybe I'm just being sentimental, but I'll try shaping people mourning their relatives into real characters, no matter how unimportant they are.

 

It took the team twenty minutes to drive to the first victim's house. Dean pulled over twice because he thought he was going to be sick, and drove slowly for the same reasons. Castiel wisely refrained his urges to complain about the eternity it was taking them to get there, and seemed to be observing the road.

When they got to the door, Sam knocked while Dean made sure the angel was presentable, and gave him some last ~~orders~~ recommendations.

"Just let us speak. If there's a question you think we forgot and would like to ask for yourself, it's probably a crappy one."

Sam turned around rolling his eyes. "What Dean is trying his best to put nicely is that this is your first time working with humans, and we know the job, so it might be good for you to just observe on your first day."

Castiel nodded. "Shall I let them see me or would it be better if I was invisible?"

Dean's face just decomposed right there. The bastard could make himself invisible. How do you want to work with that? He slowly let that feeling of powerlessness sink in, not really caring that the angel wasn't getting an answer, until a woman opened the door.

"Hello?" Sam recognized her as one of the widows from the pictures Bobby had given him.

"Mrs. Stephens?" The woman nodded. "FBI," Sam said, as he and Dean presented their badges.

She looked at them both, before examining Castiel, who stayed still, and _thank God_ , visible. The two men followed her eyes and turned around, to realize that the angel probably didn't even own a badge.

Dean was a bad improviser. He knew it, Sam knew it, Bobby certainly knew it, and God probably knew it too. However, he was a rapidly responding improviser, which was arguably a bad thing, as he couldn't help speaking before Sam, who in comparison was an expert at improvisation.

"He forgot his in our room this morning," he explained looking at Castiel with a patronizing smile before shrugging at the woman. Sam gave him a mortified look and Mrs. Stephens' widened eyes were travelling back and forth between him and the angel. He realised the implications of what he'd said a few awkward seconds later. "No, I don't – no." He shot a disgusted look at the goldfish behind him. "I meant our room as in his and mine," he added waving his hand between him and Sam. This time, Sam shut his eyes, mentally sighing, and Mrs. Stephens made a face that was right in the middle of confusion and revulsion. "Come on don't – we're _brothers_ ," he finally declared, showing her their badges again. "See: Winchester, Winchester. Brothers. That one is agent Stills and he's a bit _distracted_ all the time, isn't he?"

Dean turned around again, kind of getting sick of the movement, hoping staring at Castiel would make him understand he had to confirm the story. _Wishful thinking_. The angel squinted at him and crooked his head. Dean turned around again, definitely for the last time today, trying to refrain his murder impulses and offering a apologetic smile to Mrs. Stephens.

"Right," she muttered, still a bit confused. "Of course, yes, sorry. What is this about?"

Dean discreetly sighed in relief. He was never speaking to a witness before Sam gave him his approval ever again.

"We are currently investigating the death of your husband," the youngest Winchester said, putting his badge back in his pocket. "We'd appreciate it if you could answer a few questions."

Her eyes fell to the floor as soon as he'd pronounced the word 'husband', and she was already preparing to close the door. "Look, I've already talked to the police, there really is nothing more I can tell you," she assured the agents.

"We understand this must be a difficult time, but this investigation is now in the hands of the national authorities," Sam informed her, "and even though the report the police transmitted us was of undeniable help, it is limited, and we were hoping you could fill some of the blanks for us."

She still looked hesitant.

"It will only take a few minutes," Dean intervened, smiling. "Unless you want to take it to the station, which would take roughly three hours and require me to interact with cops that do not understand they're working for me, which will be irritating, meaning I'll be irritated when I'll interrogate you."

It was a tacit agreement between the Winchester boys. When a witness or suspect (or both) was proving to be reluctant, they switched to good cop/bad cop mode, and Sammy's puppy eyes and Dean's severe voice had made their roles clear. Occasionally, when they were working with Meg, she would steal Dean's part. For whatever reason, it was obvious that her 5ft of wolfish smile and sassy lust were more threatening than Dean's 175 pounds of muscle for some people. He didn't take offence though. He was prettier. _And_ he got free beers from cute waitresses.

As always, the _I will drag you through Hell to get a statement_ strategy worked and she invited them in and offered them coffee.

They all sat down around a wooden table in front of their respective cups. The Winchesters usually enjoyed all the free coffee their job provided them with, but apparently Castiel was a bit more sceptical than that, eyeing the steaming black liquid like it was about to attack him.

It was a bit distracting, watching him watching his coffee, ready to zap to some place safe in case of an aggressive gesture.

Dean was taken by surprise when Sam turned to him, apparently expecting him to speak. After a short silence, Sam raised his eyebrows at his partner. "Dean."

"Sorry," he apologised looking at Sam and then at the brown-haired woman who seemed more and more lost in what was happening. "You were saying?"

Sam's eyes settled on the angel who was still marvelling at the beverage, to come back to Dean, who was trying to get a grip. He did his best to contain his grin. "I just explained Mrs. Stephens that we would like to show her some pictures and to know if she recognises any of the people that are on them." He waited a bit for a reaction. "You know, those pictures that you are _supposed_ to be carrying around."

Comprehension finally appeared on his face. "Yes of course," he got the envelope containing the pictures of the victims and their wives out of an internal pocket of his vest. "Here they are." He displayed them on the table. "Anyone of these guys look familiar to you?"

She took her time going over every single photograph, and there were a few dozens of them. After what seemed to be ten seconds, Dean took the opportunity to check on what Castiel was doing, see if he was still absorbed in the magic of the black potion.

He was not. He was gazing at the rain outside the window, an innocent look on his face, hands on his knees. In this position, with his pale eyes exposed to the light of day, he did look like an angel. Not like the naked ones with white wings you could find in a church (or at least Dean thought there were some of these in churches, he didn't really know), but like you would call a sleeping child an angel. It was hard to believe that the creature standing – well, sitting – before him was the one who had messed with his vital organs earlier in the day.

"I'm sorry, I don't think I know any of these people," Mrs. Stephens interrupted his train of thought with a weak voice.

"It's OK," Sam assured. "We're really sorry to have to put you through this but we do have some more questions." He had his sympathy face on. It was hard to tell whether it was sincere or not, even for Dean.

"Of course, anything I can do to help."

"You were at home, on the night he passed away am I right?" She nodded. "Did you notice anything strange, out of the ordinary in your house?"

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe a cold spot, or an object out of its place, a problem with the phone line or the lights... smoke?"

She took a moment staring at Sam like he was insane. Part of the job, everybody thought they were madmen. "No, no I don't – I don't think so." She paused and sniffed, eyes roaming around the room. "I mean, it's kind of hard to tell when something is out of place, I'll try to look if that's what you want..."

"It would be very helpful," he answered her.

"Did your husband act strangely, during the few days that preceded his death?" Dean asked. He knew Sam was about to turn into a 6"4ft marshmallow and was allergic to tears. "Did he leave the house without telling you why or where he was going, did it seem like he'd changed?"

She took a moment to consider it. "He was a very secretive man you know, I never really knew where he was when he was out. But he seemed alright. Quite happier, actually."

It was becoming conspicuous that she was about to cry, so Dean decided it was time to go. "Thank you Mrs. Stephens, that will be all."

Sam and Castiel got up from their seats, the angel still looking like a confused child. "If you remember anything else, even of little importance, please give us a call," Sam handed her a card.

  


"What do you think?" Dean asked Sammy once they were all back in the car and Aerosmith was playing.

"There's not a lot to go on," he said. "I don't think it's the wife, she seemed way too..."

"Snotty?"

Sam's eyes rolled and he smirked. "I was going to say affected by it but yeah, snotty."

"Yeah I think we rule her out as a suspect," Dean agreed.

"I mean it's still a bit weird that the wives all look the same."

"Maybe some demon is getting a kick out of possessing lookalikes," he suggested.

Sam was silent for a minute, reading the file again. Meanwhile, Dean checked on their passenger in the rear view mirror. Castiel was observing the Mississippi as they crossed a bridge, with what Dean identified as boredom.

"Do you think it's too late to go directly to the next victim's house?" Sam asked suddenly.

It was seven pm. It was a bit late. Especially since Dean was hungry and dying to take a shower.

"Think it can wait until tomorrow? I've had enough tearing up women for today," he'd never liked been around mourners. "Let's just find some place to eat and then we can go over what little evidence we've got in the hotel."

  


What Sam and Dean liked about big cities like this was that food was so easy to find. In small towns, they had to fight to get to chose the restaurant. Sam was all about 'turtle food', whereas Dean always craved 'poisonous saturated fat', and you couldn't find places that cooked both in small villages. Here, they could walk into any bar, and order a tomato salad and a double cheeseburger without attracting strange looks.

It was agreed that since Castiel didn't eat, he could use that time to "report to Heaven" (yes, he used these words exactly, Dean could testify). He flew away from the restroom of the place they'd chosen to eat at, where nobody would see him, and agreed upon meeting them the next morning in their hotel room.

Dean was enjoying his third beer of the night when Sam, who had been silent until then, spoke.

"So, how would you say your first day went?"

"I wouldn't," Dean replied between two bites of his burger.

"Come on Dean," Sam insisted, "I'm supposed to report to our version of Heaven too you know."

"I don't know if I'd refer to a grumpy fifty year old as my version of Heaven, but by all means suit yourself." There weren't a whole lot of things Dean was good at, but avoiding conversations was part of them.

"Dean." Sam had his serious face on. "Would it be fair to say that it went well? I just want to have something to say to Bobby other than you didn't kill each other. Don't misunderstand me, I think that's great," he said smugly, "but maybe he was aiming for even better."

"Yeah, sure. I mean you know, he just kind of almost killed us both because you're an idiot and you can't resist letting people impress you with their stunning teleporting abilities, but that one's on you as far as I'm concerned." He was about to bite in his sandwich again but stopped midway. "Oh and let's not forget the fact that he didn't even know badges existed and that he was wearing a cheap accountant's clothes. Apart from that and the whole douchebag attitude, he's great."

"Right, I got it."

"And he didn't even touch his coffee, just looked at it like it was some kind of monster." Dean added. "He is not _prepared_ for this job, he's not prepared for this _planet_. You can tell Bobby that. He'll slow us down."

"Yeah, I got it, thanks."

"Not that he doesn't already know, you'd have to be stupid to believe –"

" _Yeah_ , Dean, _I got it_."

They both sighed and sipped from their beers.

"I'm gonna call him right now and be done with it."

"Yeah you do that."

Sam got out of the bar and Dean saw him put his phone to his ear, before he turned his attention to the brunette who had served him his beers.

When Sammy got back from his phone call, Dean's fingers were playing with her hair, wrapping strands of it around his forefinger and offering her his seducing smile.

Sam cleared his throat, and she automatically got away from him, smiled politely at Sam, and disappeared.

"Dude, her tongue is pierced, can you imagine how it must feel when –"

"Yes," Sam interrupted, trying to prevent these images from flooding his mind. "Yes Dean, I can."

The elder Winchester smirked. "So, any news from the boss?"

"You're going to like it."

"Really?" Dean was a bit suspicious.

"No." _Of course not._ "Tomorrow, I'll be interrogating the other witnesses alone." He made eye-contact with his partner. His whole face was sorry. " _You_ , on the other hand,will be gathering our kind of information from the officers who wrote the reports. With him."

Dean wasn't exactly surprised. He knew he was supposed to be working in duet with the goldfish at some point. Maybe he wasn't expecting it this soon, but it was very Bobbian, wanting to get on and done with it already. "OK."

"OK?" Sam was actually surprised by how Dean wasn't so. "Aren't you going to throw a tantrum or something?"

"No. I just want him to have an ID," he warned. "I'm not explaining why my partner looks like he followed me home again."

Sam smiled. "Fair enough, I'll have someone deliver one in the morning." He chuckled.

"What?"

"Nothing," he answered, still smiling.

"Sam, what?"

"Just... you. Being so mature. Never thought I'd see that."

Dean didn't contain his smile. "Oh shut up."

They ordered two more beers, and the waitress gave Dean her number and a cute smile, and they spent an hour dwelling on their stories about wendigos and women in white, ignoring the curious looks people around gave them.

  


As promised, a package was delivered to their hotel room in the morning, containing a badge belonging to a certain Jimmy Novak with a picture of Castiel on it. Sam wondered how and when it was taken.

"Novak?" he read out loud.

"Too bad I called him agent Stills in front of Mrs. Stephens," Dean didn't really care.

"No but like, _Kim Novak_ Novak."

"Yeah I totally know who that is."

"Vertigo?" Dean shook his head and shrugged. "Hitchcock remind you of anything?"

"Keep talking dirty to me Winchester," he teased.

Sam just gave up, tossing the fake ID on his partner's bed. Dean looked at it like it had offended him personally. He didn't want that subterfuge anywhere near his stuff.

 _Dammit_ , it was just a piece of paper, he needed to get a grip.

They organised their day while dressing up.

"So I'm taking the car today," Sam stated. "I'll drop you two love-birds at the station and wander off to interrogate our six other widows. Sounds good?"

Sam being allowed to drive Dean's baby wasn't that recent. They had been working together for six years now, and Sam had sat behind the wheel one year after that for the first time. However, driving her without Dean's supervision was still fairly unusual, and he always felt the need to make sure it was OK with the possessive jerk who loved his car more than himself. Speaking of the Devil, he didn't look too pleased with the idea. He knew what Sammy was capable of: he was certain the man listened to folk music when no one was watching, and forced her to respect the speed limits. But he had to admit that surrendering her to Sam for the day was the clever way to do it.

"Yeah, sure." He put on his shoes as Sam fixed his tie. "But I'm driving to the station, and we're having breakfast before anything supernatural happens."

"OK," Sam conceded. "Should we call him?", he then suggested questioningly. "You could like, brief him or something, during breakfast. He might need it."

Sam had a point. Dean was not going to embarrass himself like he had with Mrs. Stephens again. On every account, it would be a good idea to have a bit of a chat with the angel before surrounding him with police officers.

"By all means, go ahead if you think that's necessary."

Sam gave him a pointed look. "Dean."

"Sammy."

"You know what Bobby thinks about this," he argued. "You should be the one to call him, I won't be around to do it for you for very much longer."

Dean actually felt his throat tighten a bit at the idea. He tried to remind himself that Sam was a bitch who considered himself the big brother in their relationship even though Dean was the eldest, ate more vegetables than meat and knew about that Kim Novak person, and that these were _irritating traits_. But Dean would miss scolding him about his music tastes and teasing him about his almost non existent sex life.

"You sound like you're dying, are you going to miss my singing voice that much?" he grinned before adding, "We'll still see each-other. It's just temporary," it really was. "Anyway," he said looking back at his cuff, "I'll call him." He finished arranging his suit and walked to the middle of the room, eyes closed. "Castiel?" He opened one eye, then the other, to stare at the angel-free place.

"Maybe it's just like last time, try a prayer," Sammy encouraged.

He sighed. "Fine," he mumbled, and closed his eyes again. "Castiel, we pray that you materialise your non-feathery rear in this room as soon as your obviously very tight agenda allo–"

He didn't even have time to finish his sentence before he heard flapping wings and saw the man appear, his insanely blue eyes five inches away from Dean's. The man widened his eyes and breathed in a sharp breath. He would have taken a step back, but the heavy stare kept him in place.

"Hey," he said after what felt like an eternity. Castiel just squinted at him (it was in all appearances the only facial expression he seemed to master). They stayed still for a few additional seconds, during which Sam was captivated by the stillness in the air, until Dean came back to his senses and broke the eye contact to stare at the floor. "Dude, hum," the angel scrutinised his face. "next time, could you materialise just two meters farther?"

Castiel joined him in his exploration of the carpet. "Of course," he pronounced with that goddamn low-pitched voice. "I will," he promised, receding from the motionless agent.

Sam cleared his throat. "Right, hum, we were about to go find some place to have breakfast and we thought – "

"My metabolism does not require food to function," he spoke as coldly as ever.

"Yeah, yeah of course," Sam nodded, "we just thought it'd be a good occasion to brief you on what we're going to do today."

The angel seemed to consider that for a second before disappearing again. The two men looked at each-other, Sam frowned and Dean shrugged. "Maybe that's a no."

"I don't know he just gives me a headache let's just go already," Dean said, putting his vest on.

  


Sam, chewing on his apple, was watching Dean swallow his morning chicken sandwich, when they heard the restroom door open violently. They turned to look at it, and saw Castiel, with an expression of shock and a bit of disgust on his face, walking towards them, his coat floating around his legs. Dean almost rolled his eyes at the overly dramatic entrance, but preferred to look back at his meal to take another bite, silently shaking his head. _At least he didn't appear in the middle of the restaurant_ , he thought.

"Hey, hum, Castiel. What – what's going on?" Sam took care of seeking the information as the blue-eyed creature just awkwardly stood by their table, looking around the room.

"I am joining you to be... _briefed_. I thought this was the arrangement we had agreed on." He shot a glance at the thing Dean was currently shoving into his mouth, until Dean realised he was being observed and put his sandwich down.

"Disappearing without a word is _not_ agreeing upon something," he said, avoiding Castiel's eyes.

"I apologize if I do not possess the time to go through human processes," his voice went even lower than usually, and a smug sneer emerged on his face, "but I am an angel of the Lord, and as such, I am required in Heaven."

A staring contest started between the two. Dean took the opportunity to observe the angel's face. He was still impressed by how blue his eyes were. _Castiel blue_ , some part of his mind decided. They were looking at him with self-conceit, but there was something else behind it. That look was a bit like the look you'd give a child, confused, yet somehow knowing.

"Well, sit down," Sam interrupted before the silence stretched too long.

Dean and Castiel took an additional second before they turned to Sam, not exactly sure who had broken the eye contact first. "I prefer to stand."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "People will think it's weird."

Castiel looked around the room again. "Yes. Of course." Sam and Dean had chosen to sit to a table with leather benches, so the angel had no choice but to sit next to one of them and face the other. He probably didn't really care about it, but both the men were wondering what he'd pick.

In the end, he slithered in next to Sam, facing Dean who was slowly masticating the end of his meal.

He was peacefully chewing, trying to ignore that deranging feeling he always got around the angel, enjoying the silence, when Sam made him an exasperated sign with his eyes, pointing them towards Castiel. He sighed before he swallowed the piece of meat that was sticking to his teeth, throwing several crumbs in Sam's general direction in doing so. "We're going to walk into an official building today," he announced. Castiel looked unimpressed. "Just – you and I," he precised.

This time the blue eyes widened the tiniest bit, and turned to Sam. "Is a medical condition keeping you from joining us?"

"No," Sam frowned and consulted Dean, who shrugged. "I will be interrogating witnesses."

"The point is," Dean interrupted, "you're gonna have to behave."

Castiel raised his chin at him. "I am perfectly capable of sustaining an attitude above all suspicion, if this is what you are hinting at."

"Oh I wouldn't _dare_ to doubt that for a second," Dean responded, leaning in with a sarcastic smile, joining his hands and resting his elbows on the table. The green and blue pairs of eyes connected and challenged each-other for the billionth time. Sam was totally buying firecrackers to throw them around and break the tension next time this happened.

"OK you two enough," he intervened. "No more awkward eye thing I can't take it anymore let's just go."

Both recipients turned to him with frowning eyes, which then found each-other again looking even more confused, to rest back on Sam.

"Sammy what the He–"

" _Dean_. Leaving. _Now_."

The elder Winchester knew better than to argue when his partner _Dean_ ed him. They paid for their breakfast and left, Sam walking ahead, followed by Dean, who shot regular glances at the angel behind him, who seemed to be fascinated by the hydrogen molecules surrounding him.

 

 


	4. You and Me Angel

 

"What official building are we going to?" Castiel asked once they were all seated in the car.

"Police station," Dean answered dryly. "Filled with police officers. Human ones." For a second he thought about adding 'as far as I know anyway' because in regular circumstances it would have been funny, but he realized that he actually had his doubts.

"Why?"

"To ask them questions," he said eyes focused on the road.

"What questions?"

Dean sighed and mentally rubbed his eyes. "Questions about the reproductive cycle of sloths," he smiled at Castiel's reflection in the rear-view mirror. "Anything else you need to know?"

Castiel looked at his feet confusedly. "Why are we interested in that? Bugs reproduction is far more entertaining." Dean turned to Sam with pleading eyes. "Furthermore I fail to see how any animal reproducing system is relevant to our investigation."

 

Dean got out of the car and threw the keys at Sam, who caught them with his right hand. Sometimes Dean would try to make it difficult for him, but the young man had been a basketball player in his college years, and tricking him was almost impossible. And well, maybe Dean kind of cared about those keys.

Sam stayed with them a few moments. They decided he would leave Dean a message after interviewing each witness. Once they had reached this agreement, Sam sat behind the wheel and drove off, Dean following him with worried eyes until Baby was out of sight.

"You seem worried," Castiel suddenly spoke up. "You shouldn't be, there is absolutely no threat upon your partner's life."

He almost sounded like he meant to be reassuring. Of course, it just felt like a computer program trying to sing a lullaby, but it threw Dean off balance. "What?" the angel crooked his (its? Dean didn't know) head. "No, I'm not worried about his _stupid ass_ ," he exclaimed. "It's just..." he saw Castiel's blue eyes searching his. He actually looked... maybe not concerned, but interested. "It's my car."

The angel frowned and extended his neck towards him ever so slightly. "You are expressing human emotions towards a manufactured object."

Dean didn't really know whether this was a question. "Do _not_ call her that. In fact, you know what, just, forget about it. Here, take this." He handed him his badge, waiting for Castiel to take it. He didn't. Dean sighed and rolled his eyes for the billionth time since they'd first met before grabbing the goldfish's vest by the lapels and sliding the ID into its inner pocket himself. He remembered the picture. Castiel's blue eyes fixed on the camera, a neutral expression with the tiniest hint of a smile. He looked at the face standing before his. It wasn't exactly neutral. Solemn, serious was more like it. He couldn't really picture him with the relaxed attitude. "Hey, um, when did they take your picture?"

"My picture?"

"Yeah, they made one of these badges for you," he explained, "the one I just put in your pocket." Castiel looked down at himself, where he guessed the mentioned pocket was resting against his chest. "There's a photo of you on it. When was it taken?"

"I highly doubt your terrestrial electronic appliances would be capable of capturing my image, if this is what you mean. My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler building."

 _Okay_ , Dean thought, trying not to imagine a giant trench-coated man and letting go of the _true form_ thing for now

. "Yeah. Right. Thanks." He silently cursed at his life and all the choices he'd made that had led him here. "Let's go."

 

Dean entered the building with Castiel on his tracks. He was greeted by a skinny-looking man who took one glance at his badge and his humanish partner before sending them to a waiting room with three comfy chairs. They both sat down as Dean tried to listen to the man who was apparently trying to put an end to an inconvenient phone call. But the walls weren't that thin and the sheriff didn't speak that loud, so the agent soon had to face the fact that he would have to spend these minutes with a mute angel.

It wasn't too awkward. Nor too long. Dean first had had the firm intention to appear bored with it, like it was just a normal day for him. Of course, it was, if it wasn't for the blue-eyed creature currently smiling at a picture of the Earth hung upon a wall, with some basic ecologist slogan like "Our planet our future" or something. But quickly enough, curiosity won the better out of him and he had to speak. He'd never been very good at that game where the first one to speak looses.

"So... is _that_ what you see from Heaven, or whatever you call it... Paradise?" He still had to protect his pride, so he tried to ask that as matter-of-factly.

"What do you mean," Castiel asked, briefly laying his eyes on Dean, before focusing on what was happening outside the window.

"Earth," he replied. "Is that what you see from your– home, I guess."

"Where do you suppose Heaven is?" This time, the angel locked eyes with him. A small smile was playing on his lips.

"Er, I don't– know, I just. Up there?" he tried, his head motioning towards the ceiling.

"Above your sky you mean," Castiel stated. Dean shrugged and then nodded. "It isn't."

He turned back to look at the picture taken from a satellite, apparently done talking. Dean waited a few seconds to make sure he wasn't going to add anything else before he started again. "So where is it? Is it classified?"

"Of course not. But even if the human race was able to get coordinates from an angel, they wouldn't mean anything to you. There is simply no way to communicate them. They aren't meant to be shared."

"Oh," Dean breathed. "No angelic GPS then?" Blue eyes shot him a confused glance. "Forget about it."

"You've asked that of me several times already, I feel I should inform you that my memory is not erasable. Unlike yours, it is not even subject to ageing."

"Good to know," Dean offered him a sarcastic smile. "I'll try and remember that. But you know, I might forget. Human memory and all."

"I will show comprehension if you do."

"Awesome," Dean said dryly. He was done speaking now. He put his palms on his thighs and prayed for that call to end, or for Sammy to appear through a window.

When the sheriff finally came out to meet them, Dean got up with a relieved smile to shake his hand.

"Sheriff Boyle," he said. "Agent Winchester, FBI" he introduced himself, presenting his badge.

The man nodded at him with a tight smile before turning to the strange fawn standing behind the agent with intrigued eyes. Dean turned around like he was wondering what was so interesting, only to be faced with Castiel who just stood there. _What was he an idiot?_

"This is agent Novak," he explained, clearly understanding the man wouldn't do it for himself. He waited for him to show his ID. In vain. He made an apologetic face at the sheriff who returned a questioning look to his smile. "Also FBI," he precised, deepening his smile with both exasperation and an undetectable hint of amusement.

The angel suddenly looked like he'd received a small electric shock, and finally got his badge out of his pocket. Dean was about to let relief run through his body, when the ID unfolded and he realised it was upside down. He would punch him later. He pulled it out of his hand, which remained completely motionless, to put it back in the right way.

For a minute, it was like the bald man in front of them was going to ask for an explanation of _what the fuck is he doing in the FBI_ , but Dean told him he was new, and he probably didn't have too much time to waste on checking on things other people were meant to survey, so he just reluctantly invited them in.

 

This meeting proved to be quite useless, and undoubtedly too long. And embarrassing off course, with Castiel trying to warn the sheriff against demons. The officers who had been first on the crime scenes didn't have anything particularly relevant to say, no weird people, objects or smells. OK so maybe that dog had barked a lot and yes now that Dean mentioned it there was that one light bulb crackling, but really that was it. Dean listened to the messages Sam had left on his phone, and he didn't seem to have anything new either. Snotty widows who offered him tea and just didn't understand how or why.

He put his phone back in his pocket and checked on his partner, who was still peering at his own face on his fake badge. "Problem here Cas?"

He didn't seem too shaken about the nickname. "Is this him?"

"Him?"

"Jimmy. Jimmy Novak."

"That guy actually exists huh? I don't know man," he said, getting closer to take a look at the badge himself, "I just saw a picture of you."

"This is not me, Dean," the angel assured him with a firm voice.

"Uh, I can see you," Dean waved his hand at him, somehow certain it would illustrate his point, "and yes it is."

"This is a vessel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the end being kind of abrupt.  
> I hope I'll be able to publish again soon but exams.
> 
> I just read Appoggiatura and it's just GREAT so read it, it's on AO3 :) Musicians (especially pianists I think) will like it, there are lots of links to classical & rock music that the characters play or listen to, and I think the way the author sees music is just perfect. READ IT.


	5. Sandpaper

_What did you just say?_

Dean swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and winced when the posture of his hand, circled around the glass, pulled on his bruises. The texture of Castiel's face was something his knuckles would remember, even though it would never cross his lips.

He had to call Bobby. He was kind of afraid to. Angels used vessels. His first thought – well, no; his first thought had been an electric impulse that threw his hand in the angel's direction, so technically his second thought – had been an urge to warn people, the bureau, to let them know that the sweet little cherubs they affectionately called goldfish were in fact scumbags hiding behind living human eyes. But then, a terrifying idea had crossed his mind. What if Bobby already knew? What if they all knew and had decided, after long meetings with people wearing ties the price of his watch, that they didn't give a shit? If he called his colonel right now, would he alert the President, or tell Dean to get over it and get back to work already you idjit.

_My true form would burn out your eyes and my voice would pierce your eardrums. Walking the Earth requires me to –_

And then he'd punched him. Right in the jaw, with all the strength he could manage. It was worse then knocking on wood. Dean was pretty sure a part of his fist had met Castiel's cheekbone, because he had definitely felt something sharp. It was like his skeleton was made of iron and covered with sandpaper.

_Son of a bitch._

Castiel had stayed just long enough to make eye-contact with him and force him to see his look of confusion and everlasting calmness, as well as the lack of a bruise on his face or any sign of pain in his posture, and then he'd disappeared, leaving Dean alone and holding his right hand in his left to make sure none of his fingers fell off. After that humiliation and the angel's attempt at zapping them, he'd concluded that any kind of physical contact with a creature of Heaven was an unnecessary danger.

He should call Sam. The kid was probably worrying about him anyway. He just needed a few minutes to drown a little bit (by his standards) more alcohol and start feeling the pleasant heat take the pain away from his knuckles. At least he was certain Sam would have a humanish reaction. Dean didn't need to actually hear it to know that he would try to find some explanation in an attempt to clear Castiel's hardly pronounceable name, like _oh but they must be possessing corpses_ or _it's not like they hurt their vessels and they probably release them as soon as possible_. Dean didn't need to actually hear them because they've already played over and over in his mind like a broken record, and even whiskey's not helping.

There _had_ to be an explanation. Bobby wouldn't let these assholes _possess_ living people. He must have asked the _where did they get the bodies_ question at some point. Dean should have asked. He'd been blinded by his instant hatred of the creature and let his brain spend too much time looking for stupid excuses for it to spot the real problems. He'd been such a fool. Real idjit.

 _Same bar as yesterday._ He texted Sam in the end. And because it took more than fifteen seconds for an answer to show up, he added: _He's just wearing a goldfish Sammy._

This time the reply came pretty quickly. **Dean you make no sense stop ordering drinks I'll be there in 10.**

Yeah like that was gonna happen. He knew Sam wasn't expecting him to listen anyway, so he raised his hand for a refill.

  


When Sam got to the bar, he spotted Dean easily enough. He was slumped on the counter, looking at the way the liquid moved inside his glass when he described an aerial circle with his hand. Okay so a bit more than a few drinks. So far, no real surprises. No girl around him. Bad mood. If he'd been irritated he would have started a fight or at least an argument with a threatening-enough-looking guy, so not angry. Depressed? He probably would have gone to a liquor store and gotten wasted by himself in the motel if he'd been, but Sam was running out of options.

He took a seat next to him and politely told the bartender he wasn't going to consume anything before turning to his partner, who had barely acknowledged his presence. "So what happened?"

Dean wore a sad smile when he looked at him. "Nothing Sammy. Nothing _happened_."

 _Uh huh._ Apparently that was all he had to say. "So why are you drinking? I mean that much."

Dean put his glass down and turned his whole body to Sam using the rotating stool, resting his elbow on the bar. "Mostly because I can," he admitted. It wasn't until Sam cocked his eyebrows at him and slightly pursed his lips that he continued, spinning to face the counter and his glass again. "He's using a vessel." He threw what was left of the brown heat directly into his oesophagus. "The Jimmy Kimmy-Novak Novak? He's for real."

"What... Castiel?"

Dean nodded as his eyes rolled. "Castiel who? No I'm talking about Jimmy Page." He got hit by the realization that he wouldn't ever be able to call that man Jimmy again, and cringed it off. "Of course Sam, how is it that I'm drunk and yet you still seem so slow to me." He swung around to show his best impression of a smart-ass to his partner, but he obviously wasn't as clear-minded as he'd thought: the man was gone, so he shrugged, dug into his pocket to retrieve a bunch of money, which he was pretty sure was not a correct way to phrase it but then there was no grammar police in his head, contemplated counting the approximately exact amount he owed the bar, got a headache, put what looked like a bit too much on the counter, and made his way out.

"… see you explain this to him," it seemed like Sam hadn't gone that far to make his call, "you'll be to blame for the alcohol charges."

Dean could hear the sound of what he presumed was Bobby's voice at the end of the line, but for the life of him he could not make out any other word than 'idjit', and he was almost certain his ear had hallucinated it.

"Oh he tried, his hand is –" Dean chose this moment to let the door close behind himself, and Sam turned around with a sigh. "Bobby I'll call you back, he's out." Dean could still hear the voice mumbling something about idiocy and _get these kids under control_ when Sam hung up. The taller Winchester walked towards him, dipped his gigantic hand into Dean's pocket to retrieve his keys, and held them in front of his face, "I'm driving."

Dean would have protested but then he could have sworn the world was shaking around the keys that seemed to be perfectly immobile, so he figured it was okay to have Sam taking care of his Baby tonight. It wasn't like he was leaving them alone again anyway.

  


"So? Did Bobby say anything about the..." Dean waved his unbruised hand (his left, he was sure) in the air between himself and Sam's shoulder, "the vessel, thing?"

Sam shot him a judgemental glare.

"What," Dean said simply.

"Well he _did_ say your way of dealing with it was stupid and unhelpful," his partner provided.

Dean nodded. He'd had this conversation with both Sam and Bobby and they just refused to understand that he knew what he was doing and was more than able to stomach his drinking, so there was just no point in arguing anymore.

"And we agreed, by which I mean he ordered, that you should talk about it with him."

"Oh what so now I've got to go to couple therapy with him?"

Sam giggled. "You do look like a married couple," the fucker was still smirking.

"Look Sam I know it's your thing to make out with vegetables and grape fruit and stuff, but a human and an angel? Even for you that's twisted." Humour, humour will do the trick. Dean couldn't exactly deny Castiel had a tendency to stare at him much longer than it took to become uncomfortable. Well he would, but he knows he'd be lying. That wasn't even the point. "Wait you're not going to get me with humour."

"Actually you're the one who does that."

Was he? That did sound like him. "Never mind that, dude there's nothing to talk about, he's a douche, it's not like talking is going to change anything."

"It is."

"Tis not."

"Yes it is."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

There eyes connected, and eventually, their lips curled and they focused on the road again.

"Glad we sorted that out," Sam had apparently won the argument.

They remained silent until they arrived to the hotel, at which point Dean got his keys back and went straight to their room while Sam stayed outside to ring Bobby for the second time that night, as he'd promised.

He quickly took off his clothes to step into the shower, eager for the hot water to relax his tense muscles and wash the remains of anger. It was something he'd learnt when he'd met Sammy, anger wasn't something he should hold onto, and he did his best to try and soothe the feeling whenever it crawled underneath his skin. He focused on taking control of his breathing and the frequency of his heartbeat with the shower tracing furrows on his forehead and cheeks, and falling to envelope all of his body.

It was with reluctance that he stepped out and put a short white towel around his hips. "Sam?" He called out from the bathroom. He got no answer. He examined his face in the tiny mirror and played with his hair before remembering he wasn't a girl and he had no business staying in a bathroom if it wasn't to shower or shit.

He got into the bedroom and slammed the door. "JESUS FUCK WHAT THE – "

"Hello Dean," the low-pitched voice greeted, blue eyes looking into his from underneath dark lashes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the sexist remark about girls and bathrooms, they're not my words, they're Dean's. I wouldn't want an army of Hounds of Tumblr on my back.  
> Also, would you guys like me to make a playlist to listen to when you're reading this fic? With like links so you can listen to the right thing at the right time and be in the same mood I'm in when I'm writting? I don't think it'd be too hard so let me know :)  
> Hopefully I'll write longer chapters when I'm done with exams (28th of June), when Dean & Cas are over the youarerubbishgetout phase.


	6. Hence the Chill

 

"Are you stupid or suicidal, coming back when I'm alone?" He tried to force his heart to stop beating so hard. The angel probably got his kicks out of giving people heart attacks and he wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.

Castiel raised his chin and smiled, his gaze as intense as it would have been had he appeared five inches away from Dean like he usually did. "I was ordered to come here," he said with that calm voice of his. "Your superiors are hoping I will put some sense into you."

Dean felt a chill roaming up his spine. He was about to get anxious at how his body was responding when he remembered that he was still wearing just a towel barely covering his thighs, and that it would fall down if he opened his right hand. Water was still dripping down his calves, and he was getting kind of cold. Hence the chill. He was fine. "Bobby sent you here?" he asked incredulously, mentally searching for a way to interrupt the conversation to put some clothes on.

"Colonel Singer explained our situation to my supervisor and suggested sending me here," he clarified.

"Why?" He questioned with a harsh tone, eyes on his gun lying on his bed.

Castiel followed his gaze, and there was a slight change in his attitude when he realized what it was aiming at. His jaw relaxed somehow, as if he'd been about to sigh, but nothing came. Dean wasn't even certain the bastard was breathing anyway. "This will not be of any help to you, should you succeed at an attempt to reach for it without uncovering yourself completely," he said motioning towards the white piece of textile.

Dean muffled a curse looking at the ceiling and felt his blood rush to his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

"I shall give you a moment," he added before disappearing.

Dean's eyes automatically searched for him or a few seconds. He then grabbed the first clothes he could find, subconsciously ruffled his hair and went out to look for Sammy, but the man was nowhere to be seen in the parking lot, where Dean had left him. He checked his phone but he had no new messages nor missed calls. He called out for him once, twice, cursed at the responding silence and went back to his room, finding Castiel sat down at the wooden desk, flicking through their stuff. He got his gun he'd retrieved while getting dressed out of the back of his jeans and pointed it at the angel. Maybe he hadn't lied, maybe it would do nothing to hurt him, but it made Dean feel better somehow.

When blue eyes meet his, they are filled with sick fascination, and Dean feels like a bug trapped under a glass by a child who has yet to learn the importance of freedom for every living thing. Castiel glances at his gun and smiles like he's remembering a joke he heard from an old friend. "Does it make you feel more comfortable?"

Dean shifts his weight to his right foot and reaffirms his hold on the weapon between his hands, his finger on the trigger. The lack of fear or even surprise in the angel's eyes is putting him off a bit, and he's hesitating between feeling silly or angered. He isn't used to this, being the one unsure of what he's about to do, with a knowing scrutinizing glare on him, eyes that he feels are capable of predicting his every move before he even thinks about executing them. In Castiel's presence, Dean doesn't have the upper hand. He doesn't know how angels work, how they think, what they bleed, how they bleed, or if they even bleed in the first place. These are the things he needs to know in order to be at ease around people. No wonder he can't relax near the dark haired trench-coat. "If this can't kill you," he says briefly averting his aim from Castiel to indicate he is referring to the beauty in his fingers, "what will?"

It's a shot in the dark. There is absolutely no way a creature will _willingly_ tell him how to put an end to its existence, but for some reason he believes there is that tiny little snow-ball of a chance that Cas, who constantly needs to be reminded of what's a normal human behaviour and what's freaky angel mojo stuff, who waited for the Winchesters by himself standing on the side of the road, will perceive Dean's question for just that, curiosity.

So he waits with his gun secured by his tight grip, jaw tense, expecting a humourless laugh any second now. Castiel locks eyes with him and for a moment Dean loses track of time. The angel is piercing through the layers of his constant fortress and looking at his soul, and it is extremely uncomfortable, like all his clothes had just vaporized. It seems to him a lifetime before Castiel decides he's seen enough. What he saw must have been trustworthy in one way or another, for when he breaks the eye-contact it's to sigh and look at the floor in sign of surrender, before actually answering Dean's question. "A few things. All human weapons will of course be useless. The power to kill an angel must only be detained by another angel, for we alone have the capacity of objectifying our judgements completely."

Well, that wasn't exactly the answer Dean had been fishing for, but it wasn't _who do you think you are asking me that you hairless ape_ either, so that was something. He looked at the gun in his hand and contemplated shooting just to check, and maybe partly because it would be a huge stress relief, but he thought better of it and tucked it back in the back of his trousers with the safety on.

"Why are you here?" He asks as Castiel starts to look the leather-covered journal on the desk. "Leave that alone," he orders.

He turns to face Dean with an innocent look on his face – angelic, you might say – and carefully puts the book down. "I told you, I came here because I was ordered to."

"Yeah to... _put some sense into me_ ," he resists the urge to mimic quotation marks, "whatever that means."

"I'm here to explain you that I am not possessing anyone." Dean gives him a pointed look and raises one eyebrow. "Well, I am, but not in the way you think."

"Right so you're asking for his opinion, right? You're not – dragging that guy into blood baths, you haven't left his family thinking he abandoned them, huh?"

Green eyes are glued to Castiel as he rises from his seat, daring him to deny the accusations. He ends up less than ten feet away from Dean and uses this physical proximity to try and let the man see how undamaged Jimmy Novak is. Indeed, the man currently serving as a meat suit is uninjured. Actually, Dean doubts he could ever get hurt with the natural shield his sandpaper skin has become.

"Angels aren't demons, Dean. We cannot enter any body we want. The vessel has to accept to let us in," he gives Dean some time to let that sink in with a gulp. He so obviously had a hard time believing in clawless creatures. "Also, not all angels have a choice. Finding a vessel able to contain me, it's difficult."

"Yeah I have the same problem with women."

That's a reply Castiel had probably not been expecting, judging by his confused frown eventually followed by a strike of realisation and a judgemental shake of his head.

"That's not gonna cut it though." Dean added when it began to feel like Castiel was getting away with it. "You can't tell me that's a way of living, trapped inside your own consciousness with a humourless douchebag directing your every move?" Cas squinted at the insult without trying to respond, so Dean kept going. "And the people he left behind when you took him away?"

"It was God's will. There is... an unalterable link between an angel and his vessel," he explained facing away from Dean as if he was ashamed in a way. "This is a devout man, he actually prayed for this. Everything he won't share with his kins and acquaintances he has compensated by trading his body for their eternal safety." And then, a rare thing happened. Castiel had nothing to add, and Dean had nothing to answer after he exhaled a baffled 'oh' he didn't manage to bite back, and a weirdly comfortable silence stretched between them, as Dean tried to think of a new incrimination to throw at him. "Where is your partner," Cas suddenly wondered, eyes travelling around the room.

Dean was brutally dragged back to reality, in the world outside of this motel, where Sammy was missing. "I uh – I don't know." Guilt hit him as he pronounced those words, but if Castiel noticed anything he didn't mention it. "He was making a phone call and now he's just gone."

"Is he protected from angel localisation?"

Dean stopped checking his phone again to glance at the immobile winged man. "What?"

"I presume that is equivalent to a negative answer," he seemed to have found his dictionary voice again. "I will look for him and bring him back."

"Woah woah woah hold on there a minute," Dean intervened before the guy flew his way out. "You're not _zapping_ him anywhere, you've lost that privilege the day you put my liver in my throat."

"I did not t– "

"You _did_."

Castiel opened his mouth and breathed in – he did breathe – preparing to talk back, but changed his mind in the middle of doing so and shut it again."What are you suggesting we do then?"

Since when was there a _we_? Dean didn't really have time to care right now, he needed to find Sam, even if the gigantic idiot had simply thought it was a good idea to abandon the two of them to let them share their feelings and braid each-other's hair and exchange family recipes watching a rerun of Bridget Jones' Diary once everything was sorted out. The fact that Dean thought _that_ was more plausible than the guy getting abducted by a shapeshifter was a proof that something was wrong with the vegetable-eater anyway.

"OK. He was in that parking lot not even ten minutes ago, can't be that far. You locate him with your freaking mojo, zap right back in here _without_ him, tell me where he is, and I'll drive there to pick him up."

"This is a waste of time."

"I wouldn't bother explaining this to anyone with a developed emotional capacity, but I guess you're an exception," Dean started. "So pay attention because that will never happen ever again. _This_ ," he said motioning towards his face, "is my _I couldn't give a rat's ass about it_ face, see?" He waited for a nod that didn't come. "So we do what I said how I said it, and that is it. Got it chuckles?"

Castiel looked like his face was made out of steel. "You do not possess the power to give me orders, Dean." He was walking towards him, and quickly enough his face was a few inches away from wide green eyes. He was definitely shorter than him, but that did nothing to impede the threat in his words from shutting the agent right up. The next words he pronounced slowly, letting each breath die on Dean's cheek before blowing a new one. "You should show me some respect."

There were times for smart ass replies, and there were times for humble silence. _This_ , Dean was going to file as part of the second category. He'd had guns against his temples, teeth against his neck, blades threatening his heart, and countless claws gripping his jaw, but none of these could quite compare to what he felt with scalding blue eyes radiating heat like none of the fires he'd lit up. He felt the hairs on his arms stand up, driving a chill up to the top of his skull. _Fear_ , he recognized. He was in the position of a prey facing nothing but flames and the murderous look of its predator.

And suddenly, just like that, he'd been released. He blinked twice, realizing he'd avoided doing so in his stupor, and Castiel was gone. He let out the breath he'd also been holding, and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

 

In the end, the angel had gone with his plan and had delivered Sam's coordinates in a few-seconds appearance. He'd assured Dean that Sam was perfectly fine, in a 24/7 grocery shop, looking for, and he quoted there, 'something Dean wouldn't understand starting with healthy and ending with food'. Castiel had also suggested that Sam, perhaps, might be trying to use sarcasm and actually meant _healthy food_ with nothing in the middle, and Dean had thanked him for his priceless input.

As he'd suspected, there was nothing to worry about, so he shut the elder brother instinct he'd developed with the other agent down for the night, and fell asleep listening to his own heartbeat, steady as a metronome.

 

It would be unfair to say that Dean has recurring nightmares. He does have a tendency to dream about things that could inspire horror movie plots, but that comes with the job. He doesn't even call them nightmares anymore, they're just a way for his subconscious to let go of all the crap he has to face on a daily basis. However, it is clear as day that he does not get pleasant dreams very often. They're so seldom they actually unsettle him when they decide to come around. Like his mind is trying to trick him. _Of course it would_ , he thinks in the mornings following a good night.

But tonight, he lets a random mix of memories play in his sleep. There's the day he met Sam.

_What a coincidence, me too. Dean Winchester._

He turns around and suddenly he's at Meg's birthday party, watching Garth hug all the people he's never met and everyone else because at some point he can't make the difference anymore and he hugs everybody all the time anyway. _You know what's coming next._ He feels the skinny arms reach around his neck, and the exposed ribs hit against his own torso. He hugs back, alcohol flooding his mind, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he's at a new year firework with Benny, they're seventeen and drinking beer on a beach.

Red sparkles light up the sky and he's in his car, his for the first time, and it smells of leather and the fragrance he wore as a teenager, a smell that has now almost faded away but not completely yet. His dad is standing outside the car and something that almost looks like a smile forces its way on his face. _Take care of her Dean._

_You bet._

Something's off. He knows it because in his rarely agreeable dreams, it's always just memories. And that last scene never happened.

He wakes up calmly but abruptly. He's on his back, both hands on his chest, and he can hear a breathing he immediately recognises as Sam's next to him.

He doesn't like staying in bed when he knows he won't fall asleep again, so he gets up without turning the lights on, and heads to the bathroom making as little sound as possible. He closes the door behind himself, switches on the buzzing blue light, and looks at his reflection in the mirror. What the Hell does his mind think it's doing?


	7. If This Is to End in Fire

 

It was only on rare occasions that agents Winchester and Winchester faced cases with people killing for eachother. After all, that sort of favors required quite a special relationship, whereas killing in your own interest was a simple matter of finding the right doses of selfishness and insanity within your own soul. However, they had come across a few of these specimens in their careers, and this day Sam and Dean added a line to their list.

It took them a bit longer than usual to find a serious lead, half because they had no idea what they were looking for, half because Dean was having a hard time focusing on anything that day.

“In October 1853, John Alexander Davemport was murdered by his butler, H.S. Herbert, who used the silverware he cleaned everyday to stab him in the back,” Sam read out. “It is strongly believed, even though impossible to prove, that this was an act of revenge and an attempt to implement justice. It was later discovered that the servant had entertained an affair with his master's wife, Eleanor Davemport, who had been found throttled three months earlier. Mr. Davemport was never convicted for his wife's murder, but you couldn't have found anyone in the town who didn't believe he was guilty.”

He looked up at Dean, who was sitting across from him. “So what, this guy screws his boss' wife, the old man kills her and the guy kills him to get revenge?”

The younger man nodded. “Basically yeah.”

Dean frowned. “So why is he coming after random men whose wives are perfectly fine?”

Sam turned the book he was holding around and put it in his partner's hands. “Meet Eleanor Davemport,” he said pointing at the picture of a beautiful woman with brown hair and eyes. “Remind you of anyone?”

“His spirit is killing the husbands of women who look like his mistress.” Dean gave it a thought. “Chivalrous, in a – weird way.”

“Yeah well, says here our Don Quixote was buried next to the Davemport mausoleum in the Cavalry cemetery.”

Dean shut the book he'd been holding open without any real intention to read it and got up from his seat. “Let's go.”

 

Exhuming bodies felt like family meetings. Well, like what Dean imagined family meetings felt like. He hadn't been through many of those, with all that travelling around and never spending more than two days in the same state. Let's just say that the lifestyle his father had imposed on the both of them made it difficult to actually plan a family reunion. He wasn't even sure they'd had any family to be reunited with in the first place. But this, this is what he pictured when he looked through lighted windows at people of all ages sharing a meal from the backseat of dad's car. Later in life he'd heard all the people he called his friends complain about having dinner at their parents' for Thanksgiving, and he'd learnt how to answer properly, like _man that sucks_ or _give your grandma a kiss for me will ya?_ The idea he'd developed of it had never faded though. To him, family was people you'd chosen, because there had never been nor would ever be somebody else. Sam was his family. Bobby, Meg and Garth were too in a way. Family meetings were the nights he spent with these people, remembering embarrassing situations or arguing about something stupid until you couldn't know what you were arguing about anymore but you weren't quite done yelling for no reason. Family meetings were every single time he found himself laughing or holding back tears of rage.

And exhuming bodies had turned into family meetings when he'd joined the FBI and he and Sam had spent five hours digging an unmarked grave because they couldn't stop laughing at the stories they told eachother about their youth and coworkers. It _was_ fucked up, but so were they, and in the end, everyone's family is a bit fucked up, so they didn't worry about it too much.

The smell of death slowly invading your nostrils was how you could tell when you were getting close, and it was becoming overwhelming. A few minutes later, Sam exposed yellow bones that weren't even linked together anymore, and put the shovel down. He threw oil on what was left of the Davemports' butler while Dean took care of the salt. The elder Winchester struck a match above the tomb.

“Bye bye Gerbert.”

The corpse, if you could call it that, took fire and soon all that was left of the man was a pile of ashes.

“Dude, it was Herbert,” Sam said. “It was probably the last time someone ever said his name and you didn't even pronounce it correctly.”

Dean shrugged. “We'll just lie about that part when they make a movie about us.”

Sam huffed out a laugh. “We should probably leave before someone notices the pyre and the movie turns into the story of two Satan worshippers.”

Dean agreed and they packed their firebug equipment and made it back to the car.

“So what now?” Sam asked once they were both seated and Dean was about to pull off.

“What do you mean?” He turned his head to make eye contact with the man who was already looking at him.

His partner raised his eyebrows. “Look, you didn't want to call him for the research and you didn't want to call him for the digging and burning. I get that, I really do, but we can't go back to Bobby and tell him we just dismissed him for the whole thing.”

“Why not?”

He was being stubborn on purpose and he knew it. Didn't mean he was going to quit though.

“If I'm answering that question it's with a slap.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean smirked and drove away, Oasis' Stand by Me playing on the radio.

“You do know that Bobby will drag you through Hell until you cooperate right?” Sam interpreted Dean's irritated sigh as a yes. “And the sooner you give in the sooner you'll start getting nice things?”

“Stop using my pickup lines when you try to patronize me.”

The younger man actually chuckled at that. “You won't make me believe you actually ever got someone in your bed with that line.”

“Don't underestimate the power of the freckles Sammy.”

 

 

___________________________________________

 

 

 

“Vengeful spirit huh?” Colonel Singer looked at the report the two agents (meaning Sam) had had to write down.

“Yep,” Dean answered. “Turns out he was banging a chick who looked like all our widows.”

“Hmm.” The two young men remained silent while their boss slowly flipped through the pages and pictures of look-alikes. Then, he closed the light blue file and threw it on his desk, sending a couple photographs flying out of it. “Where's the angel?”

Sam's head slowly lolled to the side to face Dean with mocking eyes and a cruel grin. He wasn't helping him out of this one. Dean _had_ to work on his improvisation skills.

“He's uh, reporting to Heaven,” he answered pointing at the ceiling with a smile. “That Zachariah guy? Probably his version of you.”

Bobby didn't look too pleased with the comparison. “Uh huh. So how did it go?”

Dean kept smiling, waiting for Sam to tell their boss about all the weird things Castiel had been doing and saying, about the fact that he didn't know what a badge was for, that he'd almost killed them, that he was indestructible, that he was verbally incontinent, and, last but not least, that he was using a freaking vessel. Except Sam never opened his mouth. Dean looked at him only to realize that he was looking down at his intertwined fingers with an amused smile that did nothing to hide his urge to laugh. That son of a bitch. Dean turned back to face Bobby again and pointed at his own chest. “You want _me_ to tell you how it went?”

His colonel offered him an edgy smile. “Well you should be the one who knows best kiddo.”

“I thought Sam was the inspector or whatever it is you wanted him to be.”

“Yes,” the old man was obviously starting to get impatient. “And he reported to me daily, no what do _you_ have to say?”

Dean shrugged. For some reason, everything he was expecting to hear from his partner's mouth had fled from his mind and he was left with no idea what to say. That was a first. “We uh, we found the guy searching for violent deaths at the local library and, and then we – I don't know, we found his grave, dug it and burned the bones. 't'was fine. Normal.”

“Well who would have thought I'd ever hear that word from my Supernatural agents?” He dropped the fake smile to let irritation show on his face. “What about the angel?”

“Oh, that,” Dean said. He shrugged again. “Hum, good.” He turned to Sam, whom he found head resting against the tips of his fingers, elbow resting on his armchair, stare creeping towards Dean in amusement and a tiny glimpse of curiosity. “Wouldn't you say, partner?”

“I believe I'm not being asked, partner.”

There was a short moment of silence that was broken by the exasperated old man.

“Ok that's it, Winchester, you're out,” he ordered looking at Sam. He waited for the tallest FBI agent on Earth to have left the room, and got up from his seat, pacing behind Dean's back with his hands behind his own. “Listen to me you idjit, I don't care if you decide to be a smartass about it and a sarcastic asshole when trouble comes knocking, but you'd better understand that if you are incapable of dealing with this like an adult with me, you'll have to do it like a hairless ape with _them_. It is in your best interest as well as in mine and your goldfish's and everyone else's to man up and _deal with it_. You might not like him and he might not like you, but all you can do about it is drink your sorrow and complain to people who don't give a rat's ass about it, am I making myself clear?”

Dean swallowed and nodded.

“I didn't quite get that.”

“Yes sir.”

“Good.” Bobby sat down again, and laid his palms on his desk. That was one of his tells. Putting his palms flat on his desk meant more bad news for Dean. He took a breath and waited for him to hit him with it. “In the light of the recent events, I think it'd be good to rearrange your appointment with Dr. Shurley a bit sooner than we'd decided.”

“ _Hell_ yeah,” Dean raised his right hand offering a high-five. Oddly enough, it didn't come.

“You know, I knew that someday I'd find a crazy lunatic who'd enjoy sessions with his psychiatrist, but I'd have bet on Rufus before putting my money on you boy.”

Bobby couldn't understand. Dean had dreaded his first meeting with his FBI therapist, but it wasn't something agents were allowed to skip, and no exceptions were made about that rule, especially not in the Supernatural division. After all, he agreed that most hunters, as they usually called themselves, needed the psychological backup. He'd always firmly refused to admit or even believe he did, but it couldn't hurt people like Garth to just let go every once in a while. And Dean, oh he had been lucky. His doctor was the best. On their first session, he'd had Dean talking for a whole hour with practically no interruption, and not a single word about the agent's life or job had come out. He had spent the whole time talking about sex. Oral sex, vaginal sex, anal sex, rough sex, caring sex, wall sex, table sex; he'd even made up stories about gay sex. Anything to make the little man blush and too embarrassed to interrupt. And both of them had kept a straight face. And when he'd gotten out of the room, Dean had laughed until he was blinded by the tears and his abdominal muscles were sore. And then again when he'd told Sam. God knows what Chuck had done afterwards, but since then, Dean had enthusiastically organized his appointements and it was the doctor who seemed to want to delay them as much as possible. Dean had outwitted Freud. He'd won.

“Man I don't know, it just feels good to let things out of my chest sometimes,” he said with a smile and tears that were threatening to come up at the mere thought. “How about next Friday?”

Bobby was dismayed. “I'll check that with him and I'll let you know,” he slowly replied.

“Okay,” Dean said as he got up from his chair. “Nice talk Bobby.” He was going to be a sarcastic asshole.

 

“How was it?” Sam enquired with a smile, arms crossed over his chest when Dean got out.

Dean smirked harder than him. “Apparently my recent behavior requires professional help,” he said, pating Sam on the shoulder as he walked by him.

The younger agent fell in step with him. “Oh no.”

“Yes,” he smiled with all his teeth.

“Oh boy.”

“Uh huh.” Dean stopped walking and pulled him to a halt with a hand on his forearm. “I need to find someone to make a hickey on my neck,” he told Sam as if he'd just been hit with a massive revelation.

“Dean,” Sam sighed, “just leave the poor guy alone, he's just doing his job.”

“Yeah well his job sucks.”

“That's just one more reason why you should be kissing his ass, I'd have had you transferred to Arizona just to make sure I'd never even read your name anywhere ever again.”

“You should be careful about the name jokes around me Sammy,” Dean winked at him. “You think Meg would give me a hickey if I tell her what it's for?”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Yeah I think you should forget about that.” He shook his head, and suddenly chuckled. “Aaron would though,” he added designating the man in question with his eyes and a sign of his head.

 _Ugh. Aaron._ “Not funny Sam.” Dean turned towards the man who he realized had been observing them for quite a while now. Aaron was cringe-worthy. Eversince he'd arrived here to replace that Ruby girl who'd sold cocain to a couple agents and was now rotting in jail as a receptionist, he spent his days chasing Dean around the office whenever he was in the building. He'd never actually tried anything, but he was creepy as fuck. He noticed Dean looking at him and waved at the Winchesters with a smile, but it was obvious he hadn't even realized Sam was standing there too. _Ugh._ Dean waved back in a mechanical way with an uptight smile, and Sam contained his laugh. That was too funny. “I'm out of here,” Dean grunted, and his partner followed giggling like a twelve year old, winking at the receptionist on his way.

 

 

___________________________________________

 

 

 

“Don't you feds have rules about drinking?”

Ellen was resting her elbows upon the counter, pooring yet another dose of brown liquid in Dean's glass. She turned to Sam with questioning eyes and he shook his head. “No thanks Ellen, I'll have water though.”

Neither of them was any fun. Of course feds had rules about drinking. But Dean wasn't a fed, he was Batman. And he could drink as much as he wanted. He told her so.

“Kid I don't even understand how you can even be drunk anymore,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Haven't you started growing a second liver or something?”

“I don't drink _that_ much Ellen.”

“Hunny you drink so much Jo lies to me about it.”

“That's because Jo's a liar,” he whispered.

Ellen nodded, “Uh huh.”

Dean wasn't drunk. He was drunk when he couldn't remember the only poem he'd ever stayed long enough in the same school to learn, that had been carved into his memory for two reasons: the first was the sexual interpretation that still made him chuckle when he thought of the first time he'd discovered it as a child, and the second was the two last lines.

To fill a Gap

Insert the Thing that caused it –

Block it up

With other – and 'twill yawn the more –

You cannot solder an Abyss

With air.

It was as if he'd recognized them, as if he'd been waiting for them without knowing he'd been waiting at all. He hadn't ever given it too much thought. He'd just tucked the piece of poetry away in his head and never mentioned it to anyone. The six short lines never escaped him. Except when he was drunk. And he wasn't right now.

There was a weird noise. It was like music but it wasn't the jukebox because the jukebox was playing Nirvana and the noise was unidentified.

Until he felt Sam's hand tampering with his thigh and producing a phone out of his pocket. “Hey that's mine,” he tried to protest, but the giant was already answering for him, trying to silence him with a dismissive sign of his hand.

“Dean's personal secretary on drinking nights what's your emergency? … Oh, right. … Yeah. … Yeah he'll uh, he'll be there. … Ok. … Yeah I'll make sure. … What time? … Ok no problem. … You too.” Sam hang up. “You have an appointment with Dr. Shurley on Friday,” he told the green-eyed pool of alcohol.

Dean grinned. That was gonna be a good day.

“Hey Ellen, wanna give me a hickey?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know what I'm doing with chapter names anymore.
> 
> The poem is by Emily Dickinson, I was going to go for I cannot live with You -- but it was a bit incredible for Dean to remember all of it so I went with something shorter. That poem (IclwY) can totally be interpreted as Destiel though. Read it. Read everything Dickinson's ever written.


	8. The Fabulous Tale of Dean's Hickey

What Ellen had given him was a slap across the face, nice and strong. Well, he couldn't really use that, especially since it didn't even leave a mark. His skin was a bit senstitive now though, as he examined it in his and Sam's bathroom mirror. The woman's hand was rough. He wasn't going to shave in these conditions. He had a little stubble but people would deal with it.

It was Wenesday and Dean only had two days left before his appointment with Chuck. He had been with a woman the night before – one smoking hot brunette with dark eyes and a tan he'd had fun with in the restroom before Ellen had thrown him out – but she hadn't been into marking him and he hadn't felt comfortable asking her like a twelve year old trying to impress his frustrated virgin friends. Who would have thought it would be so complicated for a man with his looks to get a freaking hickey? He was convinced some women out there would _pay_ to get there lips on his neck and suck and bite until the skin turned purple. He knew they existed, so why couldn't he simply find _one_? Oh well, he'd think of someone. He could take Jo in the backroom of the Roadhouse and give her a sample of what she was missing out on because of her mother, or call Bela and tell her he needed her for an emergency. She'd laugh but he knew that deep down she would be thrilled.

For now, all he wanted to do was go back to bed and tangle his legs in the covers and forget that there was a world outside of his room. It wasn't often that the had the opportunity to sleep late and do nothing once awake, and he fully intended to make the most of it. Well, _least_ of it. Sam, that morning-person freak he was living with, had gone out for a run, which meant there would be no one to stare a him with judging eyes while he filled his mouth with bacon and eggs and bread and chicken and pie and anything else he could find that didn't look like it'd grown on a tree. You could easily mistake Dean Winchester for a man who worked out on a regular basis, but the truth was that the only exercising he got was when he had to climb fences to get into a restricted zone, run after shapeshifters, or carry bags filled with guns. The truth was he was lazy as fuck whenever his life ceased to be in danger – which was rare enough for it to remain healthy – and he loved food at least as much as he did classic rock.

He went to the kitchen and put a bunch of stuff he identified as edible on a tray he then carried to the small living room and put on a table near the couch. He walked to his room, knelt beside his bed, and sent his right arm on a retrieval mission underneath it, as his left hand, laying on his matress, secured his balance. When his fingertips brushed a shoebox, he grabbed it an pulled it out. He carefully took the lid off, and produced his integral of Doctor Sexy MD from it, feeling like a teenager secretly reading porn magazines.

Absolutely no one knew about this. It was the mother of all secrets. Even Sam didn't know. His father had _definitely_ never known. He would only watch it when Sammy went out jogging, because his partner never took his keys with him when Dean stayed inside, it made running easier. He therefore had to ring in order for Dean to open the door when he got back, which left the elder Winchester all the time in the world to get the dvd back into the shoebox.

  
  


Dr. Sexy was performing an extremely risky heart surgery on the woman he had broken up with months ago because he couldn't forget Dr. Parker, the sexy but currently dead brain surgeon who had died right before he asked her to marry him; when Dean heard the sound of flapping wings behind him.

“Hello Dean.”

In panic, he tried desperately to turn off the TV by pushing any and every button on the remote. When the screen finally turned black, he faced Castiel. “You saw nothing.”

The angel crooked his head and squinted – Dean was going to need an abbreviation for that specific movement – “That statement is incorrect, I have witnessed more than any human being could ever conceive.”

Dean got up from the couch, and shit, he was still in his boxers and Led Zeppelin T-shirt. He would have liked, if at all possible, to keep the number of times Castiel saw him without proper clothes on small enough to hold on one hand. He'd never seen the angel without at least three layers of clothing on. “You can't – _zap_ in here whenever you want.” The man stayed perfectly still, looking at Dean gravely. “What _do_ you want?” Dean tried to appear as unphased as possible but he was definitely holding Castiel's glare with his eyes to keep it from going down.

“I have come here as a representative of my superiors. They feel they may have made a mistake assigning me to you.”

Dean frowned. “What are you saying?”

Was that it? Had they changed their minds? Maybe someone had finally realized that Dean was the worst possible agent to entrust a goldifsh to. He tried to manage his expectations as Castiel spoke.

“Should our personal relationship interfere with the effectiveness of this alliance, my superiors are prepared to consider assigning you to one of my brothers or sisters instead of myself.”

Of course they wouldn't let him out completely.

“Brothers and sisters?”

Castiel nodded. “All angels are God's children.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “So what, are they hoping I'll eventually get along with one of you guys if they send you all one by one?” Dean felt the cold air around his toes, he was really uncomfortable, half naked in front of the trench-coated man.

Castiel looked to his right as he sighed; it seemed he wasn't really fond of eye contact when it wasn't to trap you with a gaze of marble. “Archangels had first chosen to pair us because they believed our characters were most likely to join in harmony,” Dean had stopped counting the _what the fuck_ s that played in his mind by then, “but in the light of the recent events it appears it might have been a strategic miscalculation.”

“Wait, are you telling me there was a meeting in Heaven to decide who I was going to be stuck with?”

Castiel let his head roll on his neck to face Dean again with a small smile. “If you mean a dialogue to take a decision regarding the identity of your partner, then yes.”

“So actual _Archangels_ ,” he couldn't believe he was actually saying these words, “thought that you and I would be the perfect match?”

The angel's smile enlarged. “I suppose we should express gratitude that they didn't send a cherub after us.”

Dean waited for understanding to wash over him, but it didn't. “Sorry?” He asked eventually.

Castiel took control over his face again and his smile faded as he looked at the ground and put his hands behind his back. “You have – what humans have mistaken for Cupid is actually a lower class of angel. Cherub, third class, to be precise.”

Dean winced. “Are you telling me Cupid is – wait.” Castiel looked up with wide eyes, ready to fight whatever danger Dean had detected. “Was that a joke?”

The angel breathed out through his nose and escaped Dean's stare again. “I should have known it would be above your understanding. I apologize.”

“Woah, don't,” Dean said as Castiel made eye contact with him again. “Your sense of humor does need some sharpening,” he conceded, sending the blue eyes away from his face one more time, “but it's good. Humor's good. You actually sounded... less robotic, for a second.”

It didn't seem like the body Castiel was possessing ever blushed. Dean wouldn't have noticed his sudden embarrassment if it hadn't been for the way his eyes kept moving, trying to find a new place to hide every second. “Is this meant to be a pleasant thing to hear?”

Dean grined. “Well it's not an insu–“ The door rang and Dean turned around to face it. “That's Sam,” he said. “Just hold on a –“ but Castiel was already gone when he turned look at him.

Well.

“Coming,” Dean yelled. “Just a minute I uh, I've got something I need to finish.” He got his Doctor Sexy MD dvd and hid it back in his room. He wasn't sure Castiel had paid any attention, and even if he had, he'd probably have a hard time trying to communicate the information, but it didn't stop him feeling the protection of his secret had been breached.

When he opened the door, Sam bore an expression that was a mix of exasperation and disgust. “Dude, you seriously think I don't know what you do when I'm out? Could you at least not do it in the shared areas? That's gross.”

Sam went to take his shower as Dean smirked. His secret was still safe.

  
  


  
  


In the afternoon, after he'd brushed his teeth, made sure none of his ties were wrinkled, contemplated ironing some of his shirts for an hour while silmultaneously flicking through pages he already knew by heart in his dad's journal, cleaned his gun, and done everything else he could think of to procrastinate a little longer, Dean headed out.

He had to admit it, his obsession with that hickey thing was a bit childish. But then, Dean was compensating.

He was going to get some apple pie and maybe a beer, he was going to smile at a cute girl he'd see there, and then maybe they'd chat for a bit, and then he would text Sam to tell him to vacate the apartment, and then he'd get the greatest hickey the world had ever seen, among other things, such as laid. He'd been thrown out of the Roadhouse less than twenty four hours ago so he wasn't going back there yet. Instead, he found a cafe where a woman with long red hair was sitting alone, apparently checking her emails or something on her phone.

He walked into the bar and sat at a table from where he could easily see most of her – and where she could probably see most of him too, should she turn her head – and got started.

  
  


“Sir, I don't think we've got any apple pie left,” the waitor said flatly.

Dean sighed. He couldn't say he was surprised. “Story of my life,” he answered with a smile that made him look like he'd gone through this Hell for hundreds of years, and was now calm and wise in the face of adversity. “Any blueberry?”

“Sure,” the man mumbled, and then disappeared.

The woman must have been thirty at most. She was typing something on her phone now, eyes focused on the screen, and her coffee had long stopped producing smoke. The way she was dressed, with dark colors except for her white shirt, gave her a serious tone. The taste Dean had developed for suits during his years at the Bureau was proving useful; he was wearing a white shirt and black tuxedo himself.

He usually went for chicks who eyed him up first, but everyone else here was a couple and it wasn't like shy or rigid women were out of his league. She didn't even seem to be too much of either of these anyway, she was just absorbed in what she was doing.

He had an idea.

When the waitor came back with his blueberry pie and no beer, he spoke just loud enough for his voice to reach his ear. “Hey, do me a favor will you?” The man seemed to refrain from rolling his eyes. What had happened to serviceable people? “Go see if that woman's coffee is cold and if it is, bring her another one for me.”

“How considerate,” he sighed. “Should I tell her it came from a mysterious stranger or are you planning on making yourself... _known_?”

Dean's face drew a startled expression. He looked at the waitor. It must have been a college student, his face was covered in acne. “I'm starting to think it'd be better if you didn't say anything.”

“Marvelous.”

Dean shook his head as the kid walked away. When he laid eyes on the woman with the red hair again, he found her gazing at him, a small smile playing on her lips. He jumped a little, but smiled back at her, and she answered with a wave of her hand. When her eyes lingered on his face, he grabbed his plate and joined her at her table.

She spoke as he pulled a chair. “People usually buy me mojitos on these occasions.”

He smiled and picked up a piece of pie with his fork. “I have absolutely no idea what 'occasions' you are referring to, I was just making sure you stayed hydrated.”

“Has anyone ever fallen for that one?”

“It works better than the touring rockstar story, if you want statistics.”

She put her phone down and crossed her arms on the table. “I see. So who are you today?”

Dean maintained eye contact as he chewed on his pie slowly. He swallowed carefully and licked his lips; oh he was good. “I'm an undercover agent. You can call me Dean. You?”

She stared at his lips. He had her. “I'm Anna.” Her eyes came up to meet his from under her lashes. “And I wouldn't get my hopes up too much, double-o-seven.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I assure you that's not what's getting up here.”

It'd been a risky move but he would have hated himself for missing on that opportunity. She was a little classier than his usual one night stand but she still laughed, and sat back in her chair. “Charming,” she grabbed her phone and stood up, “but I have to go, my country needs me.” She put a hand on his shoulder as he looked up at her with his mouth full of blueberries. “Perhaps we'll meet again, Dean.”

Her fingers brushed his forearm as she retrieved her hand, and she was gone.

Dean swallowed a barely mashed piece of pie painfully. The waitor brought a steaming coffee with a smirk. “You'll have to pay for it even if it didn't work,” he said as he put it down in front of Dean. “Also I think that guy over there is eyeing you up, in case you'd like to fall back on him.”

Dean followed the kid's gaze. _Oh God_. Aaron saw he was looking at him and waved his fingers. _Freaking Aaron_. “Was he here before me or did he just get in?” he asked.

He gave him a curious face. “Are you actually gonna do something about it?”

Dean closed his eyes and sighed. “Just, answer the question.”

A jaded expression found its way back on the waitor's face. “I don't know he's not in my section.”

Dean looked up at him. “You are probably the most useless person I've ever met.”

The kid smiled, “Thanks. Here's your check.”

Dean rolled his eyes and pulled his wallet from his jacket. “You're not getting a tip.”

The kid shrugged, took his money and went to another table.

Dean quickly finished his pie and left the two cups of coffee to walk to the table where Aaron was sipping from an orange cocktail. How gay could the son a bitch get?

“Hello agent,” the bastard grined.

“Are you following me?”

Aaron's knuckles whitened around his drink. “I... what?” He laughed nervously, “no!”

Dean didn't wait for the tense laughing to stop. “Listen I don't know how to tell you this, but you stay away from me.”

“I – I'm sorry agent I just – I thought we had a thing.”

Dean extended his neck at him and raised both eyebrows. “A thing?”

Aaron offered him a faint smile and a shrug, “Yeah I mean – we look at eachother and you – I know you usually date women but I – I'm sorry I thought you might be... you know.”

“You thought I might be what?”

Aaron cleared his throat and glanced around himself. Some people were looking at them more or less discreetly. Dean realized that and exhaled slowly, straightening his tie.

“Look,” the man said, “I thought you were a legitimate target, I'm sorry if I was wrong.” Dean stayed where he was, silently. “Are you going to hit me?” Aaron was almost smiling but Dean could hear fear in his tone. They maitained eye contact for maybe five seconds while he decided on what to answer.

“Of course I'm not gonna hit you,” he finally said, low enough so that the few people that were still staring at them wouldn't hear.

Aaron's shoulders relaxed. “Are you going to hit _on_ me?” His grin resurfaced.

Dean was muted. He stood there, idle, until Aaron spoke again.

“Okay maybe not.” He looked down at his hands around his glass. “Sorry again.”

Dean saw that two women had gone completely silent and still in the corner of his eye, waiting for something to happen. He turned his head to face them and smiled an embarrassed smile. He undid the two buttons on his jacket and roamed a hand through his hair. “I'm out of here,” he almost whispered to himself.

“You have a good night,” he heard as he turned his back on Aaron.

He turned around again, walking backwards towards the door. “ _You_ , you have a –“ his hip hit a table and he almost lost balance. “Okay.” He ignored the smug smile on Aaron's face and walked out of the bar.

  
  


  
  


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Dean touched the skin on his neck, painfully beige, with hesitant fingers. He was going to start taking it personally. He was maybe fifty yards from the bar (from Adam), when he decided he'd had enough of that stupid affair. He got his phone out of his pocket and looked for Bela's number. Boy was she gonna laugh. He didn't stop contemplating hanging up until she picked up her phone.

“Dean Winchester,” she said in that languorously way of hers. For a second he wondered who would win in a battle of the women with seductive tones between her and Meg. “What can I do for you?”

“Bela,” he greeted her with a forced smile she could probably hear. “How about you and I meet tonight? Privately.”

He heard her laugh at the other end of the line. “What's the matter? Are _you_ having trouble finding someone to join you underneath the covers? My my, what's happened to you? Are you disfigured or something?”

That was why he hadn't texted her: if she'd had tangible evidence, she'd never let him live it down. “You can stop jubilating right about now, I just have a special request this time.”

“Something you thought only I could provide? Alright, I'm intrigued. By all means, do tell.”

He stopped walking and looked around himself, making sure no one was listening. “Look, before I tell you, you need to know there's a context to this, I wouldn't ask that if there wasn't.” He could say whatever he wanted, it probably wouldn't make much of a difference anyway, she'd laugh. “I need you to mark me.”

There was a short silence at the other end of the line, before she asked for confirmation. “Are you asking me for a hickey?”

He almost reflexively shushed her, before he realized he was speaking to a phone. He started walking again to avoid looking too suspect. “I've got my reasons okay?”

“I don't doubt that,” the reply came immediately. He couldn't hear the grin he had imagined would be covering her face in her voice. “Why me though? How come I get the honor? Can't you just pick someone you like on the street?”

He snorted, “Yeah, that wouldn't be weird.”

She thought about it but didn't sound convinced. “Fair enough,” she said nonetheless. “So we're breaking the no-marking-eachother policy tonight. Fine by me.”

He sighed in relief, as quietly as possible. “Awesome.”

“Great,” she agreed. “You'll tell me what special circumstances have brought that up though.”

“... Fine.”

“Fine,” she said with a smile, “see you tonight then.”

“Fine. Text you the details.”

“Can't wait.” And on that last note, she hung up.

God, he had such conflicted emotions about that woman. On one hand, she was a pain in the ass. She was smug, snobbish, bossy, several kinds of evil, manipulative and untrusworthy. On the other, she was clever, challenging, interesting, nimble, not to mention gorgeous and aware of it, and seemed to be the good kind of dangerous, in a way. Seeing her with a gun in her hand or a calculating look in her eyes always made him shiver. But most importantly, she was arguably the best lover he'd ever known. There was a clear distinction between the submission he got from the (albeit gorgeous) girls he picked up in bars, who often let him do most, if not all of the work, and the control Bela had taken over their relationship from the very start. Sure, she would answer his calls almost always after the first ring, and maybe she'd let him carry her to the bed and lie her down underneath his body, but in no way _ever_ was she submissive or even passive. She'd fight with teeth and nails to get on top, she'd make him beg for hours, teasing all of his most sensitive spots with her tongue, until she finally lost it and rode him, forbidding him to come before her, and punishing him by ignoring his calls for weeks if he did. Once, she'd let him fuck her into the mattress, and he'd believed she was letting him be in charge this one time, until she'd flipped them over, brought herself to orgasm and left him, naked, harder than ever, aching and completely disorientated in the middle of the bed. It was definitely fucked up, but just thinking about it made his dick jump. Even now, he felt his cheeks blush a dirty red at the thought of meeting her tonight.

Of coure, he'd never told her any of that. She was already smug and powerful enough without knowing so, she certainly didn't need the boost of confidence. And, well, she probably knew anyway.

He sent her a text with the address of a motel he used when he couldn't get Sam out of the apartment because _dammit Dean, I'm not sleeping in a shitty room with a shitty bed just because you're a nymphomaniac_ , and a time to meet him there.

  
  


His day was a long one. Mostly, Dean had no idea what to do with himself when he wasn't on a case or in a bar with Sam. He'd never had a thing he was particularly passionate about, except for his car, and washing his Baby three times in a row was kind of pathetic. He starting walking back to the apartment. If Sammy was there, they could go grab that beer he hadn't ordered with his pie together, if he wasn't, he could watch another episode of Dr. Sexy MD.

After twenty seven years spent living the life of Dean Winchester, he liked to believe he had developed certain superhuman skills, among which the one he valued the most was his ability to just _know_ when he was being followed. It was that feeling he couldn't shake off, not exactly like a pair of eyes were constantly observing him, more as if an invisible camera had been placed upon his shoulder, and was recording his every move. _Angel_ , his mind whispered immediately, and he almost shivered at the mere thought of having one of those sons of a bitches creeping up behind his back. His hand reflexively hugged the gun that was attached to his belt, hidden by his black coat.

“Castiel,” he called out hesitantly.

Nothing. His ear focused intently, and he could hear people talking, several dozens of meters away, a couple fighting two floors up in the building on his right, a motorcycle roaring, a dog barking, but no steps in a twenty meter radius. _Clear_ , he heard his mind tell him. The next thing it told him was how ridiculous he must have been looking, gun clutched tightly with nothing to fight but the cold wind, alone in a large street that wasn't even dark. He let go of his gun and got walking again, and if it was a bit quicker than before, and he shot suspicious glances behind his back now and then, no part of his mind dared to point it out to him.

He made it back to the building where he lived with the other Winchester, trying to make sure he wasn't being followed, feathers or not, but how do you check for invisible creeps? He didn't relax until both his feet were on his mat, and the door was locked behind him. Djinns, he could master. Shapeshifters, he could kill in his sleep. He brought vampires to their knees and begging for their lives with his eyes closed. But angels? He still didn't even know if these guys ever died.

“Sammy?” He took off his shoes and his coat as the noise of something falling to the ground hit his eardrum.

“Dean?” There was slight panic in that voice.

Dean frowned. “Is everything okay?” He was midly concerned. Last time he'd heard that tone, he'd rushed to its source, only to find his partner, naked, trying his best to cover an also naked blonde's body. He wouldn't say he'd been scarred for life, but he was definitely asking for confirmation before bursting into a room ever again.

Sam came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his pants. _Lying tell_. “Hum, yeah, yeah, I just wasn't expecting you to be back before a few hours.” He squinted at Dean's throat. “Especially still unmarked.” He grined. “Did she call you a weirdo and toss you out of bed?” As Dean rolled his eyes and sighed, his grin widened. “She did, didn't she? Told you that day would come.”

“There was no 'she' to hit on in the first place. I don't know what happened to women in this town but we need a case that'll get us out of here.”

Sam actually laughed. “Are you lying to me Winchester? Wow, what did she do to you?”

“Why would I be lying?”

Dean tried to convey the concept of honesty in with his eyes, but it didn't seem to work too well for him, as Sam threw that damn bitchface he must have literally spent _years_ practicing before mastering so well at him. “Please. As if you could hide anything from me. I know all your tells.”

“I don't _have_ tells.”

“Everyone has tells.”

“Okay, so what's mine,” he asked irritatingly. He was a king at poker. He didn't have freaking tells.

“Like I'm gonna tell you.”

Dean walked a few steps closer to his partner, pointing at him accusingly. “Alright, then let's talk about what you were really doing when I came in, huh?” Sam crossed his arms and shook his head defensively, looking at the ceiling for a smart-ass reply. He was so lame at that game. “Yeah, that's what I thought. And you're the one talking to me about public areas. The kitchen? Now _that's_ gross.”

Sam stared at him again and opened his mouth, to which Dean responded by raising his eyebrows, challenging him to even try to deny anything. Instead of doing just that, Sammy let his arms fall back to his sides and changed the subject, accepting the accusation for some reason. “Garth called, he, Charlie and Meg are in town. And us too. Silmultaneously. We should do something, that's a pretty rare occasion.”

“Family reunion?” Sam nodded. “Huh. I'm uh, busy, tonight, but early evening, sure.”

Sammy squinted again and why was everyone in his life doing that these days? “Where are you going?”

“Get marked,” he answered with a smirk.

Sam smiled a mocking smile. “You've been trying for three days, what makes you think it's gonna work this time? You're getting truly desperate.”

“Oh trust me,” he said grinning, “this is gonna work.” He made eye-contact with his partner and let perversion shine in his eyes, “I called Bela.”

Sam grew pale and closed his eyes forcefully. He showed his palms to Dean and took a few steps back, “I didn't need that.”

Dean let a laugh hit against the walls of his throat and went to change into something more casual.

  
  


They met in a bar where the walls were covered in wood, with lamps that didn't enlighten anything, an old jukebox that worked with vinyl records and a dartboard. It looked very much like the Roadhouse, except there was no severe woman he'd tried to seduce while intoxicated, and no cute blond waitress he could get favors from with a dance of his lashes. The music was just loud enough so that other people's conversations were just a blurry background noise, and it was probably too dark for people from different groups to see eachother clearly. It wasn't a vampire's nest, but it was still private enough for them to talk about their jobs without encouraging other customers to put them in the care of white overalls.

Meg and Charlie were already there when Sam and Dean arrived, and they joined them to their table, Dean winking to all the young girls he'd have to miss out on.

“I was starting to wonder if you'd planned this to give Charlie and I some time together,” Meg greeted them. “No offense,” she told the red-head, “but I only eat men.”

How was it possible for Dean to forget the effect that voice had on him every. single. time. He definitely had some langorous tone kink.

“Don't worry, I think we're all aware of that,” Charlie patted her shoulder, her other hand flying over a keyboard.

“Oh come on,” Dean blurted out, “aren't you going to let that thing go, even for fifteen minutes?”

Charlie looked up questioningly, and he motioned towards the laptop she'd been focusing on so far. “I will if you do the same with your gun,” she smiled and winked, and started to type again.

“Well you'd be grateful I always carry a gun if we were suddenly attacked by something you wouldn't even know how to fight. Not so unusual for _field_ people.”

“Well you'd be grateful my laptop is an extension of my body if you happened to be trapped inside a wall, let's say in Virginia, and a _computer_ person, who wasn't even supposed to work that day I might add, had to localise you without your tracker because you _field_ people never, ever bother carrying these really expensive things we computer people spend hours selecting for you,” she answered, still typing. “Oh wait,” she continued, looking up, “that actually happened. On a Sunday. At four am.” She waited for Dean's embarrassed smile to show up, along with Sam and Meg's amused grins, and went on, with a smile of her own. “That's zero for you, and too much to count for me. The laptop is staying.”

Dean used the first plea he could find. “Stop complaining, you don't even live that far from the office. And it wasn't four am in Virginia.”

“I was with Gilda,” she exclaimed, “I missed out on what was so gonna be the best night of my life, because your freckled ass got lost inside a wall and had forgotten to tell your partner where you were going!”

Dean sat down and looked at her with a serious glare. “Gilda as in the new physiotherapist for those injured on the field? She a... ?” She nodded enthusiastically. “Wow. You never told me that,” he said with a frown. “Sorry. Like, really. Damn.”

“Don't apologize, just stay away from walls,” she deadpanned.

A waitress showed up and they ordered beers, with an colorful cocktail of which Dean couldn't pronounce the name, even sober, for Garth, who was late, as usual. The kid, as Dean always referred to him in his mind, didn't drink alcohol unless it was drowned in sugar, and got wasted quicker than it took him to swallow his third mouthful. In his defense, he was skinny enough to wear the shirts Sam had bought when he was fourteen, and carried around until he'd finally met that one and only living specimen of the Fitzgerald dynasty. No wonder a sip of freaking _Banana Daiquiri_ got him hugging street lamps and refusing to move ever again.

“So how's your feathered tail doing?” Meg's fingers were playing with the pendant Dean had never seen her take off, and her eyes were glimmering with curiosity.

“Don't ask,” Sam warned before taking a mouthful of beer.

It is a universally aknowledged truth that the best way to convince someone like Meg – or anyone, really – to do something, is to advise them against it. Thus, it is with no surprise that she turned to Dean, more inquisitive than ever, with more questions than anyone around the table suspected. She barely spared Garth a second of her precious interrogation time when he showed up, wearing a gray sweater that would have been large enough for him to build himsef a tent out of it. Dean answered most of her exasperating questions about angels and how they were different from humans with grunts and _how am I supposed to know_ , sighs and unphased looks. He could see Sam's smug little face in the corner of his eye, the way he kept shooting glances at the two of them before drinking from his beer. He didn't know whether he wanted to grin back at him or punch him in the face, and only half of his attention was on Meg.

“How hot is he?”

Okay. Maybe more than half of it now. In fact, Garth left a sentence unfinished, and both he and Sam raised their heads to look at Meg, and then Dean. Charlie didn't tear her eyes away from her screen until the silence had stretched long enough to become interesting.

“Sorry,” Dean let out, frowning at Meg.

“How hot is he,” Meg repeated flatly.

Dean looked around the table, at Charlie's skeptical glare, Garth's childlike curiosity, and Winchester's freaking smirk. “How am I supposed to know that?”

Meg's eyes rolled, “Well you have actually seen him, which is quite an advantage.”

“Sam has seen him too, why are you asking me?”

Even her newly formed smile seemed nothing but provocative and dangerous. “I didn't have any particular reason, but now I'm starting to think it'll be funnier if _you_ answer.”

Dean's mind tried to tackle the problem. It pictured Castiel in his trenchcoat. Well, first obstacle, it had never _seen_ the guy without at least three layers of clothing. But even then, all Dean could see was how broad his shoulders were and _male_ , how his waist wasn't any thinner than his hips and _dude_ , his facial hair that didn't seem to grow and _virile. Not woman_ , period. He wasn't even being stubborn. His mind had thought about the question without his consent, and it had delivered a neutral verdict. This wasn't something he could judge.

“I don't know,” he said calmly.

Meg sighed. “Can you at least describe him? Or are men actually invisible to eachother too now?”

It would have been funny if Cas hadn't mentioned being visible was a choice for him. So Dean didn't laugh, and if Sam's snort was anything to go by, he'd understood why. “Average height,” he kicked off, “a hundred and eighty pounds approximately, caucasian, blue eyes, dark hair. Wears a trenchcoat, beige. Average pace, seems healthy to me, if it wasn't for the fact that he doesn't eat.” He picked up his bottle and drank. All three of his friends were still looking at him expectantly, and he raised his eyebrows. “That's it.”

“Wow,” Meg pronounced. Her right temple was resting against her palm, her elbow on the table, and the movement of her jaw was a lazy one. “Is it just me or did that sound like a description of a suspect? You've been an agent for far too long.”

He shrugged and smiled. “You know, you're probably right.” He saw the almost concerned look Sammy gave him. The kid constantly worried about everything. He might have sounded a little wistful, as his partner regularly called him, but Sam always exaggerated it all. It wouldn't have been much of an issue if he didn't insist on talking about it too. Dean had been through enough uncomfortable conversations about feelings and emotions to know when he had to escape his stare. “Ladies and gentlemen, I'm gonna need to empty my bladder,” he declared.

“Always so dignified,” he heard Charlie mumble, and Garth chuckle, as he headed for the restroom.

It was empty. He picked a urinal, and stood still for a moment as a terrible thought hit him for the first time. Castiel could be watching him. Any feathery ass could be watching him. The truth was, there might have been one of these socially inept assholes next to him all along. Not guardian angels, obviously, maybe more like a scribe who took down notes about your whole life whether it mattered or not. A walking diary force upon him. Well, in any case, what could he do about it? It wasn't like he was going to stop showering, peeing, having sex, and watching Dr. Sexy MD when he had no visible company. Still, he couldn't help looking around himself like a madman, right until his zip was fastened again, and not a second earlier. He caught himself staring at his reflection while he was washing his hands; he had to stop doing that. He checked the time on his phone.

“Guys, I'm gonna have to go,” he said as he walked back to his table. “I'm meeting someone,” he added with a suggestive eyebrow.

Freaking Garth _pouted_. “Can't they join us here?”

Charlie and Sam offered him their best comforting expressions.

“They could,” Dean conceded, “but what would follow is probably illegal, unsanitary, and dangerous considering there are knives on every table.” Meg's assenting eyes on him made him grin. His smile grew when Charlie sighed disapprovingly, and Garth shook his head in the same spirit. He loved these people. He got some money out of his wallet and left it on the table. “Don't let the kid drink himself to death. Or karaoke.” He didn't have time to answer the loud _which one_ his roommate threw at him as the door closed behind Dean's back.

  
  


  
  


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Bela was already waiting for him when he got to the motel. She was sitting on the king size bed, her legs crossed and her hands supporting her weight on the mattress behind her back.

“You're late,” she remarked, her tongue lightly hitting against her palate.

Dean shut the door and locked it, and took off his jacket as he walked towards her. “I'm actually right on time,” he answered with the beginning of a grin.

The smile she offered him was controlled, charming but unsincere. “You're here after me, that means you're late.”

He stopped when he was about ten feet away from her. “I'm afraid it means you're early. Were you eager or something?”

“You're the one who called.” Dean shrugged; she'd won that one. He watched her get up from the bed and take five calculated steps towards him, a proud smile on her lips. She took his jaw in her hand, applying small pressure, and had him turn his head to inspect both sides. She then let her hand fall back to her side, slowly. “No scars?”

He loved how her accent played with that word. “It's been a slow week,” he explained. He wasn't getting bruises from a spirit.

Her eyes were focused on his lips, and her mouth was slightly open, revealing a few white teeth. “Shame,” she said, just loud enough to reach his ear, like a confession. She blinked back up to his eyes and straightened her back. “So,” she spoke louder, business-like, “where do you want your mark? Somewhere people can see, or is it only for someone who'll take off your shirt?”

“Neck.” He'd learned that short answers were the way to go with her.

She walked around him and got behind his back. “Are you making someone jealous?”

“No.”

“Is this just another weird fantasy of yours?” Her hands were massaging his shoulders, and she'd spoken right behind his ear.

He thought about that. It would be easier to accept that than explain why he'd asked for it. “Yes,” he blew out.

Her hands disappeared and soon she was standing before him again. “Alright then,” she sat back on the bed and went back to her original position, “shirt off.”

He let his plaid shirt fall to the ground and pulled his black t-shirt over his head, careful not to take his necklace with it. He stood, shirtless under Bela's eyes, his clothes around his feet.

“Have you been gaining weight?”

He frowned and looked down at himself. “No,” he fought back. He'd led this exact life eversince he was four, his body wasn't about to change of metabolism. He looked back at her and saw the smile that let all of her teeth show.

“Sit,” she ordered playfully, patting the mattress. He did as he was told and let his back rest against the headboard as she straddled his legs. “Still won't take that thing off,” she half stated half asked as she played with his amulet.

He shook his head. He'd made a lot of concessions during his time with Bela, but that was one thing he'd never given up on. Sam had offered him the pendant after their first shared near-death experience. Well, technically, it'd been Sam's first near-death experience, and Dean had joined him there and saved his ass. Of course, when Sam had tried to find a way to thank him, he hadn't known where to even begin. What did you buy to the guy who risked his life to save yours? He'd told Dean nothing would ever come close to enough, so he might as well spend five dollars instead of five hundred. A lucky charm, he'd said. Dean had put the thing on, and he'd never taken it off again.

“Any preference?” She pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Hmm?”

Her nails were tracing lines on his neck. “About the exact spot. Any preference?”

He shrugged, hesitantly placing his hands on her hips. “Above the collar?”

Her fingers stilled and she looked him in the eye. Her laugh rang like a bell. “I've got to admit, I feel honored.”

He grinned. “Well you can.” His grip around her hips reaffirmed itself and canted his head so that his lips were closer to hers. He tried to minimize the number of initiatives he took, it was resting for him and thrilling for her dominant nature. He didn't trust that girl, didn't even like her, but in the bedroom, they just fitted. She didn't kiss him though. She rarely kissed him. Her mouth was for biting and sucking, and she usually avoided to lay them on his face. In the mornings, he'd find lipstic all over his body, on the tips of his ears, but never on his own lips. It was something he missed sometimes, but she was largely able to compensate for that with other types of touches.

“Shall we?” She softly dragged her red nails on his cheek. He blinked to nod, and her head fell under his chin. He felt her lips close around his skin and her tongue linger there before she bit and sucked. He let his hands climb up her back and to her neck, allowing the tips of his fingers to massage the base of her skull. Had it been a random girl, he'd have murmured some sweet encouragements into her ear, but Bela didn't do sweet. Bela did handcuffs, whips, tears, and blood. Her mouth left his neck and she wiped the contours of her lips with her thumb. “Well, that's one thing accomplished.”

He hmmed and took her face in his palms. He slanted it so he could kiss her neck as she blindly fumbled with his belt. They breathed together, Bela rocking in his lap, his hands fondling her back.

“Move,” she whispered. He opened his eyes to meet hers. She saw he had no idea where she wanted him, so she gripped his shoulders and rolled to pull him on top of her. He got the idea pretty quickly after that and slid down her body slowly, pulling up her dress as he went down.

He was dropping kisses on her thighs when she violently sat up and pushed him away with a gasp. It took him a second to realize what had happened and he looked up at her to figure out what was going on. Her head was turned to her right, and her eyes were wide. He followed her glare and found a loose trenchcoat.

“You've got to be fucking kidding me,” he growled as he got up from the bed. He took three large and quick steps towards Castiel and grabbed him by his shoulder to pull him out of the room with himself.

“Dean, what the –” he shut the door fiercely, and Bela's voice with it.

Castiel's eyes were squinted at him, his gaze was searching something on his face when he let go of his rumpled coat. “What the _hell_ do you think you're freaking doing,” he tried to keep his snarl down, they were in a hall.

“Our conversation wasn't over,” the low-pitched voice came. “I came to finish it.”

Rolling his eyes didn't seem enough, so he rolled his whole head and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “I don't even know what to say anymore, Cas, how can I force that into your brain...”

Castiel narrowed his eyes even more, and frowned. “Are you threatening me?”

Dean gave him a cold glare, his brow furrowed, and spit out an answer. “You don't get to creep up on me like that. Freaking wings or not, I don't care, that is not happening, ever again.”

Castiel raised his chin and took a step forward, his shoulder square. “What do you mean, Dean?”

He swallowed as the angel put on a menacing mask, but didn't back down. “I _mean_ , Cas, that when you need to see me, you do like everybody else and you call. Just because you can, doesn't mean you _can_ zap anywhere you want and interrupt my life whenever you please.”

Castiel's eyebrows shot up and an amused smile floated on his face. “Are you telling me I can, but I can't?” He walked even closer.

Dean leaned back and looked away. “I've had enough of that too, freaking personal space, Cas. Get away from me.” Castiel's smile disappeared and he stopped walking. “Amen,” Dean muttered, finally daring to look back at him.

The ridiculously blue eyes were glued to his face. There was a short silence that was more uncomfortable than any they'd ever shared, and Dean suddenly felt cold on his once more naked chest. “We need to talk, Dean,” Cas broke it first, “in private.”

Dean sighed. He wasn't putting any sense into him, and that was a fact. “Fine, fine, whatever. But we're not doing this, or anything else, for that matter, right now.” He heard the double interpretation a bit too late, but the angel would never hear it, so he kept his daze to himself and went on as if nothing had happened. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Confusion made its way on Castiel's face, at last. “About what?”

Dean shook his head and threw an arm in the direction of the door they'd come out through. “How am I supposed to deal with her? She doesn't know about angels. How do I explain her a freaking thirty years old Colombo appeared in front of her eyes?”

“What's a Colombo?”

“You,” Dean replied wearily, “I'm talking about you, Cas.” When Castiel frowned even deeper, he didn't give him the time to ask. “Just get out of here, I'll deal with it.”

“Are you referring to the woman with whom you were about to have intercourse?”

“Inter.. God. Yes, I'm talking about her, you can't keep showing up in front of civilians.”

“I will erase her memory,” Castiel said in a reassuring manner. “You need not worry.”

“Cas.” Dean grabbed his arm as he was going for the door again. When he turned around and glared at Dean's hand on him, he pulled it back. “You're not erasing anyone's memory. Just leave, and call me before you burst into my life again.”

Castiel waited a few moments, staring into Dean's eyes, before giving up and disappearing with a sound of flapping wings.

“Freaking angels,” Dean muttered to himself as he opened his door again. “Sorry about it,” he began, but when he looked around the room he realized it was empty, and a window was open. “Great.”

  
  


___________________________________________

  
  


  
  


  
  


Dean was sitting outside of Chuck's office, his legs crossed. He'd walked in proudly that morning, after teasing Sammy about his hickey on the way there. Meg had gazed at him approvingly and Aaron's greeting smile had faded pretty quickly. All was for the best, and he was about to have an agreeable morning with his therapist. A satisfied grin wouldn't leave his face.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn't recognize the number. “Dean Winchester,” he picked it up.

“ _Um, no, this... this is Castiel. Aren't_ you _Dean Winchester?_ ”

Dean sighed. “Yes, yes. What do you want?”

“ _This communication tool is ridiculous_.”

“It's actually pretty useful when you know how to use it. What do you want?”

“ _Is this an appropriate moment to speak?_ ”

Dean looked at his watch. “I've got an appointment in ten minutes.”

“It should suffise,” he heard both at the other end of the line, and in the seat next to him. He didn't even jump. He was already jaded. He took his phone away from his ear and hang up. “Was that acceptable?” Castiel enquired.

“It was great,” he smiled forcefully, his lips held tightly together.

They put their phones back in their pockets and Castiel turned to look at him.

“I have already informed you of my superior's concerns,” the angel started. “As their intermediary, I have to ask you a question.”

When the silence stretched too long, Dean nodded. “What is it,” he encouraged him to go on.

“Do you feel like a partnership with another angel would affect your efficiency positively?”

Dean closed his eyes and opened them again. “I'm not even sure I understood what you just said,” he confessed. “Is speech incontinence a job requirement for wingmen?”

Cas scowled. “Do you wish to affiliate with one of my brothers instead of myself?”

“Is that anger in your tone?” Dean enjoyed having the upper hand for once. “Blimey Cas, think about Jesus.”

“Dean,” Castiel chided.

“Oh come on Cas, laughing won't kill you.” The exasperated expression of the dark-haired face didn't change. “I don't know,” he answered more seriously. “Any hot sisters in your family?”

“Angels have no gender. Our names have been associated to one because of the human need to categorize everything.”

“Are you telling me you could just take Scarlett Johanson's body instead of that Jimmy guy?”

Castiel's gaze was unimpressed when he turned to Dean again. “I am not familiar with that name.” _Your loss_ , Dean thought but said nothing. “I need an answer, Dean.”

Dean finally looked back at him with thoughtful eyes. Castiel seemed utterly unaffected by it all. His face was neutral, even bored, if it wasn't for how his eyes searched Dean's face impatiently. “How much time do I have to think about it,” Dean heard himself ask.

Castiel squinted. Dean didn't know why he bothered to notice it anymore. Spotting his eyes when they weren't narrowed would have been way less demanding. “Angels have been observing the Earth and studying its inhabitants for several billions of years. I'm confident you can have as much time as you like.” Dean nodded. He could do with that. He saw the blue eyes focus somewhere below his jaw. “Are you injured?”

Castiel's fingers went straight to his forehead, and were gone before he had time to ask what the hell he was talking about now. “What the hell,” he said when the fingers left him, but there was no one to hear him anymore. He was about to shrug it off, but a terrible thought came to him. _Injured_. There was only one thing Cas could have mistaken for an injury on his body. He got up and walked to the bathroom that was right next to Chuck's office. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. His neck was all tan skin. No purple, no red, no blue, just tan. He didn't get mad. He just thought _of course_ and straightened his tie. He should have seen it coming, really. He squared his shoulders, and walked out. He let himself fall back into his armchair, and closed his eyes. He was gonna have so much thinking to do in the next few days, he was already tired of it.

“Agent Winchester?” He recognized the voice. It belonged to a woman, but he couldn't place it. Judging by her tone, she'd certainly recognized him. He opened his eyes, and was faced with the red-haired girl he'd tried to hit on the day before last.

“Anna?” She was wearing casual clothes, but put together, they looked formal. Her hair fell on her shoulders, she wasn't wearing any make up, as far as Dean could tell. “What are you doing here?”

She blinked a few times before answering. “I uh – I'm replacing Dr. Shurley today, he called in sick this morning.”

 


	9. Therapists of Every Kind

"So, you're the first secret agent to... _be_ a secret agent," Anna started as she sat in the white leather chair Chuck usually used. "Please, sit, agent Winchester."

Dean hesitantly sat on the matching couch, on which he liked to lie as he told Dr. Shurley about his sexual prowess. The red haired woman – Dr. Milton, he better start calling her – somehow fitted in the pale room, more than Chuck and his beruffled clothes ever had. The pastel blue walls gave a sense of purity to the place, probably something about making a peaceful atmosphere for the 'patients', and her white skin and delicate features shared that calm. Dean was almost certain he liked Chuck's nervous laughter and his messy beard more than Anna – Dr. Milton's analytical stare. "Where's Dr. Shurley?" His hands were in his lap, his shoulders tight around his body as he tried his best not to disturb the precise balance in the air.

"Unfortunately, he couldn't make it today. We were going to reschedule your appointment, but he insisted you were a busy man, and you wouldn't mind working with a different therapist this one time. In fact, your appointment is the only one we didn't reschedule. You must be some kind of priority," she said with a smile. Not the flirty sort of smile he usually got from women, nor the forced, patient smile people he was pissing off or wasting the time of (usually both) felt obligated to return him. Dr. Milton's smile was just kind.

“He found a way to get rid of me didn't he?”

“I'm sorry?”

Dean laughed softly to himself as he stroked the beginning of a beard he definitely had to get rid of. “It's nothing.”

She nodded, clearly unconvinced, and took a pen and her notebook before making herself comfortable in Chuck's chair. “So, Dean, if I may call you so?” He blinked in agreement. “I will try not to disrupt the habits you and Dr. Shurley have come to develop, but I do need a few basic informations before we begin, is that okay?”

“Are you asking me because the answer matters or is it just to make me feel like I'm not being psychologically raped but merely invited to share?”

Her smile grew wider as she professionally contained her laugh. “A bit of both, I suppose. We'll start easy, let's check all the information I have about you is correct.” She flipped through the pages of her notebook until she found what she was looking for, and started reading. “Your partner is Samuel Winchester?”

“Yep.”

She frowned slightly at her notes. “Are you related?”

He snorted. “Nope. Singer _'saw an opportunity'_.”

“I see.” She wrote something down. “So you have no relatives?”

He crooked an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You've got everything there is to know about my life between your hands, you don't need to ask.”

Her eyes didn't stay on him very long. When she spoke again, her voice sounded more confident, more resigned. “Stop me if any of this is incorrect. You were born in 1979, on January 24th. You live in Lawrence, in an apartment you share with your partner. You aren't married nor engaged, and have never been a father. You have not signaled any chosen next of kin. Your mother, Mary Winchester, died on November third, in 1983, by which time you were four years old, in a fire that burned down your house, and your father...” She stopped and squinted at the words, as if it would somehow rearrange the letters and gain a new meaning. Dean knew what the words said. He waited patiently for Anna to give up trying to understand, and tried not to chew on his bottom lip. “I... see.”

“You do?” He asked flatly.

“Well,” she said, less sure, “I'm not certain I do, but asking would be...” She looked at him with curiosity and a tiny hint of – fear?

“Oh you can ask, I just won't answer.”

“Alright.” She straightened her jacket and moved on. “We have no records of your youth, and the identity of the person who recruited you, as well as the tests they made you go through in order to decide you were apt to join the FBI... are classified? How classified does information have to be to be kept from your therapist?”

“Intriguing, huh? Bet you regret not taking that drink now.”

She didn't laugh that time, just kept staring at him like he might snap his fingers and disappear at any moment, or throw glitter at her and run out of the room. “You were selected to be part of a top priority operation a week ago, operation that is, as ninety per cent of you, classified.”

“Sounds about right,” he concluded.

She inspired noisily through her nose and looked back at the page she'd been reading from. “Alright,” she breathed out. “I have to admit, you are the most mysterious patient I've ever had to work with.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” he winked.

“So Dean.” She crossed her legs and crooked her head, looking at him from a different angle. “Tell me about you.”

He sighed and looked at the ceiling, looking for inspiration. “I uh – I... well, basically, I... how am I supposed to – I don't know,” he tried. He didn't even know if he could talk about his job, the bureau had special therapists for Supernatural agents, and it was impossible to know who was one of them without asking Bobby beforehand, which he hadn't had the occasion to do. She hadn't talked about being part of the Supernatural branch, so he had no reason to believe she was.

“Okay,” she replied soothingly. Everything she did was soothing. “Can you describe yourself using only one word? Sometimes, being forced into concision helps greatly.”

He thought about that for a moment, until he just knew. “Classified.”

She had no reaction at all. “How about you tell me what you were doing in the bar where we met?”

He shrugged. “Searching for pie, waiting for Colonel Singer to call with a new mission.”

“What else do you do, when you're not on a mission?”

He looked at her. She wasn't taking notes, maybe she'd understood it was pointless to even try. “Hang out,” he said uncertainly. “Clean my guns, sharpen my blades, drink.”

“That doesn't sound like a break from work,” she remarked. “When was the last time you went on a vacation?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“I'll go on a vacation when Evil does. Far as I know any second could be the freaking Apocalypse, and I'm not gonna be drinking a cocktail on a beach when that happens. I hate cocktails.”

“Was the fire that killed your mother criminal?”

He stopped breathing. Anna's gray eyes were of stone, immovable, weirdly, gently squeezing an answer out of him. “How is that relevant?”

“Just answer the question,” she ordered. “Please,” she then added.

He held tight control over his voice, maybe that was why his throat was trying to strangle the sound. “It was a gas leak.”

“Have you ever been a victim of child abuse?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been responsible of an innocent person's death?”

As far as he was concerned, his heart had stopped beating. He could feel all the color draining from his face, disappearing into the black hole he held between his lungs. “Excuse me?”

“Allow me to remind you that any information you disclose in this room will never _leave_ this room, I won't write anything down.” Her eyes were understanding of a crime he hadn't confessed to.

“Why are you asking me that?”

It was like she hadn't heard his question at all. “Why did you want to become an FBI agent?”

“'Cause I can stop the sons of bitches that are out there.”

“Why does it have to be you?”

He remained silent. He didn't have an answer for that one.

“You have lots of colleagues in the Supernatural department,” she went on, smiling when his face showed the Supernatural part of the sentence had reached his brain. She knew. “You could take a few days off, to rest, and the world probably wouldn't see the difference. Why does it have to be you?”

“The world wouldn't see a difference, because the world doesn't know.” He raised up his chin and felt his shoulders straighten. “And I'm not expecting that to change. The world doesn't know, that when it gets to go home to its loved ones every evening, it's because I sleep four hours a day and I sharpen my knives on my free time. That when people get murdered and everyone including the police think it's an accident, I'm the one who makes sure the whole town won't be ripped off the map. That when I screw up, the number of dead people has four digits. And the only reason the world doesn't know it needs me, the only reason it doesn't know I even exist, is because I do. And the second I stop running around this country, with my fake identities and my holy water people laugh at, we're all screwed, yourself included.”

She was looking at him like he'd just told her about the weather; she wasn't bored, she was just perfectly neutral, objective. “Why do you want to save these people? Teachers, librarians, dentists, nurses, houswives, cooks, Paris Hilton... all these people who don't know anything about the world, are they really worth it?”

“Of course they are.”

“Why? Why do you feel indebted to them?”

“I don't,” he said defensively. “It's not about owing them, it's about me being able to protect them when they can't protect themselves. When there's a serial killer going 'round, the guys in the office arrest them, and they don't owe the victims anything. Well I slit throats. Doesn't really make a difference. It's not about debts, it's about duty.”

“Yes, but not everyone decides to join the FBI. Where did you get that sense of duty?”

“It was the prize in a box of Lucky Charms,” he replied without missing a beat. He was getting tired of her questions and how they made him feel like an idiot because he couldn't answer them. How did any of it matter anyway?

  
  


  
  


___________________________________________

  
  


  
  


Anna let him go pretty quickly after that. She'd gotten more out of him than Chuck had in all these years, but she still looked frustrated when he stepped out the door. _Good_ , he thought. He hated these sessions, hated them more than cop shows and paperwork. He hated the ice in his own voice, the way shrinks nodded throughout all of his answers, as if they understood everything perfectly when all they did was sit in their leather chair all day while he was ripping hearts out, he hated the fact that he had to answer their questions and they had to provide an evaluation of his psychological capacities, and the more unnerved and fed up he could make them the better.

He didn't look back when she opened the door for him, and he found Sam in the chair he'd used himself. “Hey,” he greeted him hesitantly, “what's going on? Aren't supposed to be writing reports or something?”

“Singer's orders,” Sam answered, getting his gigantic ass out of his chair. “He wants to talk to us.”

Dean's eyes lit up with hope. “Mission?”

“Let's find out,” Sam said, walking to the elevator and sending it to the third floor.

  
  


“That wasn't Chuck,” Sam remarked when the doors of the elevator closed before them and they were alone.

“Yeah,” Dean grumbled, “he sadly couldn't make it today.”

Sammy chuckled. “Finally decided to run away I guess.” The cabin pulled to a stop and the doors opened. “Who was she?”

“Dr. Milton,” Dean said with fake enthusiasm. Aaron greeted them – Dean – and he let out something between a grunt and a sigh of doom. “I think she's actually got a degree in psychiatry.”

“You were always gonna end up facing one of these,” Sam smiled compassionately. “I've been telling you to go easy on Chuck for years, you never listen to me, but I knew it was a bad idea.”

“Good for you,” Dean snapped.

Sam laughed like the little bitch he was, and pulled Colonel Singer's door open.

“Good morning agents,” Bobby motioned for them to sit as soon as he saw their faces. “Now I'm supposed to call back the French Prime Minister in fifteen minutes, so Winchester,” he said with a warning tone, eyes on Dean, “keep your questions to yourself, and Winchester,” he pointed at Sam, “remember everything I say, 'cause he'll have to ask someone when he forgets it all.”

“You got it sir,” the youngest agent replied, the side of his face that Dean could see smirking.

“Where's Colombo,” Singer grunted. “I swear to God, these damn pigeons, _fashionably late my ass._ ”

As Bobby finished grumbling, Dean jumped when wings flapped next to him, and Castiel materialized, sitting in the only empty chair left. Dean breathed out with his eyes damning the ceiling and everything above it. That day would have to end at some point, it just did. Or maybe he could trip on his own feet on the way out, find Aaron waiting for him, then his car with the paint scratched and the tires flat, and he could walk home to realize he'd forgotten his keys at the office. And then he could be forced to live that day over and over again like Gramhog Day, until the end of time. It was a nightmare he had sometimes, and it was something he thought about when his mind tried to reassure him with 'today will have to end'. With all the things he'd seen, he couldn't bring himself to think there were any limits to torture.

“Glad you could make it,” Bobby groused, “maybe next time you can even make it on time, it's not like you can teleport or anything.”

Cas looked at Dean with a frown, but Sam was the one who answered with a sympathetic smile, while Dean tried to pretend he was alone in the room.

“Anyway,” Bobby continued, “I don't have time to tell you about punctuality, and neither of these idjits have any idea what any word with more than three syllables mean, so you'll just have to figure it out for yourself.” Dean had to admit it was fair enough concerning him, but Sam did look insulted and he pouted slightly, which was worth grinning about. “I'm sending you boys to South Dakota, people are being taken from their beds in locked rooms, the police doesn't understand how it's possible, everyone is panicking, you know the song. Agent Bradbury will give you details.”

Dean frowned, Bobby had never been the smiling kind, but he was even more grouchy than usual. He dismissed them with a move of his hand, but as both Dean and Sam got up, he interrupted them again. “Not you, Winchester.”

Castiel looked up at the both of them, wondering had happened in the five seconds he'd been here that justified such a behavior, and Dean rolled his eyes.

“Um,” Sam looked between himself and Dean. “Which one?”

“The short one.”

Sam smirked at his partner and rebuttoned his jacket as he walked out of the room, leaving Dean to sit back in his chair and either stare at the old man irritatedly reading reports, or the confused goldfish with a thousand questions burning in his eyes, which were fixated on Dean. Of course. It took a while before Bobby told them what this private meeting was about, and no one spoke as he kept going through files. Castiel kept staring like Dean was some painting that seemed to fascinate the hell out of everyone in museums. At some point, Singer pushed the pile of papers away, and his eyes travelled from one of them to the other, several times.

“You two,” he sighed. “Listen to me.” Dean already had several objections to make, but he knew better than to speak when his Colonel's gaze told him to shut the fuck up. “I don't know what sort of issues you got, I'll get you some couple therapy if I need to, but you ain't handling things like last time.” Okay, maybe now was a good time to say someth– “Dean I don't wanna hear what you have to say. I'm not gonna ask whose fault it is or why communication isn't working, I'm not a damn marriage counsellor, but if I have to go through another meeting with that Zachariah guy, I'm gonna blow someone's brains out.”

“I don't understand,” Cas confessed. “What have we done wrong?”

Bobby looked at Dean, and for a second, he seemed to tell him he understood the pain he had to go through. “Winchester knows,” he answered Cas. “You'll ask him.”

“Dean?” Cas turned to him again.

He was going to reply, but Bobby drew another impatient sigh, and Dean took the signal for what it was and got up, this time followed by a hesitant trenchcoated angel.

“Alright,” Bobby growled. “Out of my sight you two. And Dean?” He turned around and looked behind the blue eyes staring at his face. The elder man focused entirely on him, with a glare as serious as a heart attack. “Remember what I said.”

Agent Winchester nodded to himself, and walked out the door, a dumbfounded goldfish behind his back.

 


	10. The All Too Familiar Blankness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay.  
> I felt really guilty after reading a comment asking for an update, so I took what I'd already written and I fixed it like I could and added some stuff, so this chapter is raw. Completely unedited, I just needed to update to feel okay again. I'm so sorry guys, I just really enjoy writting Start with a name and I've completely neglected The Profound Bond because of it.  
> Nothing really happens in this chapter, it's just to let you know that I haven't abandoned this thing, I promise more action in the next one.

This case was a pain in the ass. Dean could already tell, and he hadn't even looked at the first crime scene. They had to wear trackers on cases where people were being abducted, and those things always made a high-pitched noise that sat between Aaron and a violent hangover on the bench of irritating things. He was pretty sure the FBI had the means to invest in silent bugs, and the humming things he got was just Charlie's revenge for the Virginia incident. To be fair, that had been a dick move, and it'd been his fault. Hiding inside a wall in a three-story hotel of which he didn't have the plans was a shitty idea, but then he was still alive, wasn't he?

Tracking devices and the stories behind them put aside, this case was going to be one of the hard ones. This was something both himself and Sam could tell in advance after their years of practice. What Bobby had failed to mention was that those 'people' being taken from their beds? Well the oldest one was eight. Children cases were always a bit harder: parents didn't keep calm, they didn't hold back neither the tears nor the cries, they quit sleeping, stopped eating, and obsessed over every single detail the Bureau could provide. Not that he could blame them, but communication was rendered more difficult. Dean and Sam had to pay extra attention to what came out of their mouths, and had to sound reassuring, but not too much. Children were the ones who usually didn't make it home. Even if they weren't killed as soon as they were captured, Dean had never seen any of them attempt to escape their cages, and if a muscular thirty year old civilian didn't stand a chance against the creatures their department hunted, there really was no use wondering how long a frightened eight year old could defend themselves.

These kids disappeared in the middle of the night: their parents tucked them into bed, shut the window, kissed them good night, and when they came to check on them in the morning, the bed had been made, the window was still just as shut as they'd left it, and there was no trace of anyone ever setting foot in the room.

The ride to South Dakota was a short one, compared to the ones the Winchesters usually had to go through. They'd worked a few cases in Sioux Falls and knew their way around the town. To cut a long story short, these seven hours shared with Dean's Baby could have been agreeable, if it hadn't been for the ever living question of who was going deal with the parents they would face in the morning. Dean didn't need to state out loud that Sam was better at communicating with teary people, but he also tended to act too soft and patient, and precious minutes were often wasted.

Something shifted in the rearview mirror and Dean turned around. He startled and the hit the brake.

“ _Jesus_ , Cas. Don't – _do_ that _.”_

The tires whined under the three of them, until the car pulled to a stop in the middle of the street. Dean looked in front of him and sighed.

“Hey Castiel,” Sam stared at him with a grin. A car honked behind them. “Dean. We can't park in the middle of the road.”

Dean shook his head looking at Cas through the mirror with a frown, and started driving again. “Getting off on distributing heart attacks are we?” He asked coldly. “What are you doing here?”

“I was ordered to come.”

“Why?”

“I'm not a native speaker,” Cas answered, at which point Sam grinned like the gigantic idiot he was, “but I believe the word partnership means we have to be partners.”

“Not a native – you're no use in the car, you're just gonna make us have an accident,” Dean protested.

Castiel squinted at him through the mirror for a solid minute, and petulantly turned his head to look outside the window. Of all the responses Dean had had in mind, this one wasn't one he'd planned. He looked at Sam with a bewildered frown, and his partner shrugged.

“I think you hurt his feelings,” he whispered.

 _Awesome_. Dean's right hand hit the wheel and they kept driving mutely. This silence was different, it had been companiable with the two Winchesters only, but Castiel's still foreign presence made things heavy. Dean lost patience and snapped, and he turned on the radio, flipping through the stations until he found some Deep Purple and let it blast through the speakers at maximum volume.

They arrived at their hotel without any other incident, and agents Winchester and Winchester got out of the car and slammed their doors in unison. While Dean went to open the trunk and get their bags, Sam looked inside the car, where Castiel was still sitting.

He knocked on the window. “Ever heard of a door handle?”

“Of course I have,” he heard, coming from behind his back.

Dean was glaring at the angel, and he threw his bag on his shoulder and shut the truck. “For God's sakes,” he muttered. “Listen, I don't know how to say this,” he crowded Castiel's personal space under Sam's eyes, and pointed at him threateningly. “You can't _zap_ anywhere you want. There are civilians everywhere, and if someone ever sees you –”

“What,” Castiel interrupted, taking one step closer towards Dean instead of backing away. “You think, you are here to surveil me?” Even from where he was standing, Sam could see Dean's adam apple bob. Castiel's stare was focused on Dean like he was the last thing standing on the planet. “I have witnessed the creation of this world, and I have been observing its evolution longer than you would ever be able to conceive. I don't know how to say this,” he imitated Dean's tone, “You are neither my superior, nor my superviser, Dean.”

Dean tried to think about a smart reply, but the weight of Castiel's eyes kept his major brain functions out of reach. Hadn't it been for Sammy, Dean was certain enough this could have gone on for years. However, Sam cleared his throat after a couple seconds, or minutes – he wasn't sure about that, and Dean reaffirmed his grip on the strap of his bag before walking away towards the main entrance. _Screw him_.

They got their keys for their room and Dean walked directly to it, his partner and goldfish following a few feet behind him. He was pretty sure Sam was still trying to engage conversation with the angel, but Cas was completely oblivious and gave short responses before looking back straight ahead like nothing had happened. Cas was disconcerting.

It was already eight o' clock and the December sun had long made his way down when they shut their door, so it was pointless to start driving around asking questions. In fact, Dean had some questions to meditate about himself. This whole 'am I the right goldfish for you' issue made him feel slightly uneasy. Sure, Castiel wasn't ideal. He was a proud, incompetent, frankly worrying and irritating asshat who kept flying around Dean in the worst possible moments, usually ones that had Dean at least half naked in them; but he had to seriously think about how worse things could have been. Could still be, now that he was being asked for his opinion. He remembered what Rufus had told him about his own goldfish, how the guy couldn't help hitting on everything, male, female, undisclosed, he just targetted the whole human race. As much as Dean could dig the style, even he had to face the fact that, sometimes, the nymphomaniac attitude had to reach its limits. There was also that Rachel girl he'd heard about, who sounded even more socially inept than he knew Cas was. Oh, and let him not forget about Zachariah and his bold, bold skull and cringe-worthy speeches. Yeah, as aggravating as it was to admit it to himself, Dean had likely been part of the lucky ones this time.

Then there was the Archangels story. That one was way too surreal for him to think about it without one part of his mind calling him insane. Every time he tried to picture the meeting, he ended up finding his eyes as wide as they'd ever been, so wide they hurt and he had to force himself to close them to hydrate them again. There had been a conference, in Heaven, with people looking at his resume and discussing possible matches. How? Had there been coffee? Had these guys woken up in the morning, knowing this was the day they were going to go through their wingmen's files in search for the perfect candidate? Did Heaven have mornings? How many other angels had they considered? What were they like? Did Heaven even have coffee?

And there it was, that little voice telling him he was going crazy. Another part of his mind was thinking something else entirely. It was a conspiratory voice, that whispered in his ear like everything it told was a secret that the rest of his brain shouldn't have access to. It told him he had a potential source of information nearby, and it wasn't going away. He wasn't denying it anymore, not to himself, he was curious. Revealing it to the world, though, was different.

Hanging onto his pride, he cleverly manipulated Sammy so that he would leave the room to go get them something to eat, and looked at Cas as the angel stood in the middle of the room, idly inspecting the walls.

“Hey, Cas.”

His head snapped towards him, and all mild boredom was washed away from his face and replaced by extreme concentration. That was another reason why it was so hard to be around him, that intense glare he all but threw at Dean when he spoke. “Yes, Dean?”

That was the tricky part. He could feel himself rebel at the idea of acknowledging his curiosity out loud. In a boost of maturity, he tamed that feeling down and got the words out before it could swallow them back. “What's Heaven like?”

Cas squinted. Yeah, shocker. Dean would start to worry the day Cas stopped squinting. “It isn't that different from here,” he finally answered, after a minute of cerebration. “After all, human souls are what generates Heaven, so I suppose it isn't surprising that most of it is very similar to places from Earth.”

So Heaven was basically Earth but not Earth? How freaking enlightening. “So um, that... Archangels thing?” He stuttered and Cas eyed him curiously. “How did that happen?”

“The Bible is quite a long book, which part of it are you referring to?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “How did they pick you to partner up with me and Sam?”

“They chose me to work with you, there was never any discussion of your partner. I discovered you had one when he introduced himself as such.”

Dean looked at him with tired eyes. Nothing, absolutely nothing was simple with Cas. Dean was pretty sure that if he was to ask him what his favorite color was, he'd get a speech about how the alignment of the stars would influence his answer. He was so done with this guy. “You know what,” he walked past him to sit on his bed. “Forget I ever asked.”

He took off his shoes and his pants. Two weeks earlier, he would have been self-conscious around a man, let alone a man possessed by an awkward angel, but Cas had almost seen him naked more than once, so there was really no need to act shy.

“What are you doing?” The angel asked as Dean took off his shirt to put on a tee.

“It's called changing clothes,” Dean replied flatly. “That's a human thing, nothing you'd know about. Why don't you by the way? Doesn't that trench coat bother you to fly or something?”

Castiel looked down at his coat with an offended face. “My vessel was wearing it when I penetrated him.”

Dean choked on air as his eyes widened. He hadn't just heard that. “Oh... right. Awesome.”

They then proceeded to wait for Sam in an uneasy silence, while Cas stared at his shoes as though he was trying to figure out the meaning of life based on their exact shade of black, and Dean somewhat watched him curiously from the corner of his eye. What a nerd.

Sam came back with way too many green things for Dean's liking, but he reluctantly revealed a burger he'd kept hidden in hope of shoving carrots down his partner's throat, after Dean addressed him an icy glare.

Cas basically stood there with his cocked head and furrowed brow, answering Sam's questions when they came, and mostly eyeing the meat Dean put in his mouth suspiciously. Dean was past caring. The dude was weird, and there wasn't anything Dean could do about it. Period.

They agreed to meet at breakfast once again to plan their day, and Cas disappeared in a flap of wings to let silence take his place. The two agents went to bed early that night, their backs to one another, and pretended to fall asleep as they thought about the kids they were hoping to find, and the all to familiar blankness they'd have to face in the parents' eyes if they didn't.


End file.
